


Abandoned

by MizJoely



Series: The Joys (and Pitfalls) of Parenthood [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Parentlock, angst;, dubcon;, romance;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly comes home to 221b to find Sherlock gone, leaving only a note - telling her to take their 8-month-old son and leave. But why? Established Sherlolly, loads of angst in this one, folks. Be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cover art commissioned by sempaiko.tumblr.com. Isn't it pretty??

“Sherlock! You home?”

Molly Hooper shoved open the door to 221B Baker Street, using her hip and elbow as she maneuvered herself, the diaper bag and eight-month-old Edmund into the flat. No lights were on and the flat was silent; Sherlock must be out on a case.

She rolled her eyes as she kicked the door shut behind her. He knew what time they’d be arriving home tonight, and she’d been hoping he’d actually do as promised and have dinner ready for them. Still, if Greg had called with a case, there was nothing for it but to grin and bear it, as her Nana Hooper used to say.

She slid the carrying strap of the diaper bag off her shoulder, allowing it to drop onto the kitchen table as she pulled Edmund’s high chair closer with one foot. Then she put him into a temporary football hold – the chubby lad giggling the entire time – as she pulled the tray forward enough to deposit him behind it. She strapped him in and dropped a handful of Cheerios from the baggie in her pocket onto its plastic surface.

Once Edmund had been (temporarily) appeased, she fished her mobile out of her (other) jacket pocket and checked to see if she’d missed a text from her significant other (his mocking term for himself). Nothing.

She sighed and shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it neatly on the back of the nearest chair before heading into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of milk.

They were out. Of course. She rolled her eyes as she strolled back to the table. “Sorry, Eddie, love, Daddy’s forgotten to get milk as well. You’ll have to spend some quality time with Nana Hudson while Mommy runs to Tesco to buy some.”

Just what she didn’t need after what had turned out to be a much more stressful day than she’d anticipated when she woke up that morning. She had important things to discuss with Sherlock, and just her luck he’d taken off on a case, leaving her literally holding the baby.

She grinned at her son. Not that she minded; she loved Eddie to death, even when he was teething or colicky or getting into things no eight-month-old should ever get near. He was her little Sherlock-in-miniature, and she adored her son as much as she adored his father.

Well, perhaps not right at the moment. Right now she was feeling decidedly irritated with Eddie’s father, although she could hardly fault him for dashing off at the last minute; she knew when she’d become involved with him that there was only so much change in his habits she could count on.

When it mattered – when it really, _really_ mattered – Sherlock had been and always would be there for her and Eddie. He’d proven it time and again in the two years since their relationship had begun.

It certainly wasn’t his fault that she had some rather important news to share with him; she’d opted not to send a text after she’d been given the unsettling news, preferring to tell him in person.

Oh well. With any luck he’d be back home sometime before she had to leave for work in the morning. She’d tell him then, she resolved, even if it was four o’clock in the morning. News this important really shouldn’t wait – and definitely shouldn’t be imparted over the phone.

With that thought in mind, she kicked off her shoes, settled into the chair closest to her contentedly-munching son, and dialed Sherlock’s mobile.

The phone barely rang once before immediately going to voice mail. And not his usual message, just an impartial recorded voice, the kind you could use if you didn’t want to bother leaving your own message, a neutral, soothing male voice that simply stated that the party in question was unavailable and for the caller to please leave a message.

If it wasn’t for the fact that the number that soothing, neutral male voice read out was, indeed, Sherlock’s, she’d have thought she’d dialed it wrong.

Still, if he’d changed his message to this default, there must be a reason, so after the beep she said: “Hi, Sherlock, it’s Molly, of course you know that already, don’t you, sorry, but please, I need to talk to you. It’s important. Oh, Eddie’s fine!” she added hastily as she (belatedly) realized the first conclusion he was bound to jump to after such a message. “It’s nothing…bad. It’s just…call me. I need to talk to you as soon as you get home. Love you.”

She added the last part after a slight hesitation; Sherlock knew how she felt about him; he wasn’t the type to need verbal reassurances every five minutes, but still…something made her add those last two words.

Later, when she’d had time to come to terms with the way her life was about to be turned upside down, she had cause to remember that last message she’d left him…and wonder, bitterly, if such impromptu declarations of sentiment were part of the reason he’d done what the letter she was about to find had said he’d done.

 

**oOo**

Molly left Edmund in his high chair and ducked into the bedroom, intending to give her hair a quick brush before imposing on Mrs. Hudson yet again for babysitting services while she ran out and fetched the milk.

It still gave her a girlish little thrill whenever she thought of it as “our” bedroom, even though they’d been sharing for the past year and a half. It seemed strange to realize they’d been living together that long, but she’d moved in shortly after discovering her “interesting condition” – which, conveniently enough, was about a week after John Watson moved in with his then-fiancée and now-wife, Mary Morstan-Watson.

The flat was still occasionally chaotic, but Sherlock had moved most of his experiments – and the human skull Molly insisted wasn’t something Eddie should be seeing at his tender age – up to John’s old bedroom. One day that room would have to be converted to a bedroom for their son, but not, she judged, for another six months or so.

By then Sherlock would have finished converting the renovated basement flat into a working laboratory, per his agreement with Mrs. Hudson, and it would be problem solved.

Molly was ruminating on such mundane things when she pushed open the bedroom door and bee-lined for the dresser. She reached for the hairbrush lying there, pausing as she caught sight of something in the mirror, something out of place, and she automatically turned to look at it.

There was an envelope on the neatly-made bed, leaning up against her pillows.

She froze, a sudden dread coming over her at the sight of that innocuous piece of stiff white paper. So Sherlock had left her a note instead of texting her; she should be pleased he’d taken the time to do something so personal instead of staring at it like it was a harbinger of doom.

She forced herself to walk over to the bed and grab the envelope, silently scolding herself for being such a ninny; just because he’d never left her a personal note before didn’t mean it was something bad.

Unless, of course, it was. Suppose he’d gone off to Africa for a month, and this was his way of both announcing said trip and apologizing for it being so last-minute? They were supposed to have dinner with John and Mary tomorrow night, and had tickets to the opera for next weekend…and the week after he was supposed to stay home and take care of Eddie because she had that conference in Scotland to attend…

“He’s not gone off to Africa for a month,” she muttered to herself as she hurried out of the bedroom and back to the table. Eddie had finished the last of his Cheerios and appeared to be looking around for something to drink. She fixed him a sippy cup of apple juice – he’d stopped drinking from a bottle at the age of six months – and hesitated only a moment before pouring herself a glass of wine as well. To steady her nerves, she told herself. To keep herself from once again falling into the emotional trap of assuming any unexpected changes on Sherlock’s part meant something bad was about to happen.

She took a sip of the wine, then forced herself to set the glass on the table as she opened the envelope.

She froze as she read the first sentence, as her eyes darted down the rest of the page in a disbelieving race, praying with every word that this was some sort of sick joke, that she wasn’t really reading what she was reading, that it wasn’t true…

 

**oOo**

The sound of a crash from the upstairs flat brought Mrs. Hudson racing up the stairs as quickly as her bad hip could manage. About half-way up she heard Eddie start wailing and quickened her pace, calling out: “Molly? Are you all right, dear? Molly?”

No answer, only the continuing – escalating – sounds of Eddie’s cries.

She reached the landing and pushed the door open without bothering to knock, knowing that Molly would have left it unlatched.

The sight that greeted her eyes was one she would never forget: Eddie, screaming in his high chair, a cheerful red sippy cup clenched in one tiny fist; a broken wine glass on the table; a tipped over chair, doubtlessly the source of the crash she’d heard – and Molly Hooper huddled on the floor, eyes blank as she groped after the splinters of glass that had landed on the floor.

“Molly, what’s happened?” Truly alarmed, Mrs. Hudson hurried over to her tenant’s side, bending down and gasping as she saw the blood from numerous cuts on the younger woman’s hands. “Oh, dear, stop, we’ll get the broom, you’ve cut yourself, love, don’t bother with that now!”

Molly stared at her as if she were a stranger – one not speaking English, judging by the lack of comprehension on her face. _She’s had a shock,_ was Mrs. Hudson’s first thought as her heart stuttered and thundered in her chest. _What could it be?_

Her eyes fell on the envelope that lay beneath the fallen chair, pinned by one leg and rapidly soaking up spilled wine. Molly held a piece of paper tightly clenched in the hand that had the least amount of blood on it, and Mrs. Hudson patiently coaxed her to her feet, eyes on that piece of paper and a feeling of dread gathering in her chest.

She’d received some dreadful news, the poor dear, although Mrs. Hudson didn’t recall seeing any personal letters in the post, only the usual assortment of bills and junk mail and pleas for financial assistance for various charitable causes. There hadn’t even been anything that could constitute a case; Sherlock received very few actual letters asking for his help, most of his cases coming from email or DI Lestrade.

Still, the origin of the distressing missive wasn’t important; getting Molly settled and her cuts tended to had to come first. Then, of course, Edmund needed to be calmed down. It must be something catastrophic for Molly to be in such a state of shock that she neglected her son like this; it was certainly very unlike her, she was usually an attentive and loving mother.

Oh, he’d had his jabs recently; had she received bad news from the doctor’s office? Or was it Sherlock, had something happened to him?

_No use speculating, Martha,_ she chastised herself as she managed to haul Molly to her feet and from there over to the nearest armchair in the sitting area. She hesitated; should she try to find bandages for her still-bleeding hands or get Edmund?

His increased screams decided that question for her; Molly wasn’t losing enough blood for it to be an issue, there didn’t appear to be any glass lodged in her wounds, and she’d twisted her hands into her skirt, so that would (temporarily) take care of that.

She hurried over to Edmund, cooing soothing phrases to him as she released the catch and hauled him out of the high chair and into her arms. “Shh, Eddie, there’s a good lad, Nana Hudson’s here, it’s all right, my lad, it’s all right…”

She continued babbling nonsense to him, keeping her voice light and soothing, but his eyes were fixed on his mother and he was still crying, although thankfully the screams he’d been uttering had died down.

The sound of someone pounding up the stairs caught her attention; was Sherlock home at last, could she hand this unexpected crisis over to him and retreat back to her own flat, to await clarification at some later date?

No, it was John Watson, who paused on the threshold of the flat to take in the situation. “Sherlock texted me,” he said by way of explanation. “He said Molly would need me…what’s happened, Mrs. Hudson?”

His eyes never left Molly’s huddled, white-faced figure, and she knew he’d taken in the sight of the overturned chair and broken glass and spilled wine, the blood on Molly’s hands and the single piece of paper crumpled in her fingers. She explained as best she could, then asked if he could take care of Molly while she brought Eddie down to her flat to try and calm him down.

John nodded absently, his attention entirely on Molly. Sherlock’s text had been terse, even for him, reading only: _Molly needs you at Baker St. Go at once._

And so he’d done, dropping everything – his shift at the A&E, dinner with Mary, everything, sparing only enough time to call her and explain what little he knew, apologize to Huntingdon for having to cover yet again at the last minute before dashing into the tube and making his way to his former flat, curiosity and concern fighting for equal room in his heart and mind.

He’d tried to ring Sherlock back during that tense ride, to no avail. The git had changed his voice mail message to the default setting, which meant he was likely on a case that required a great deal of discretion – possibly something for Mycroft and the British government, but until he actually heard from his friend, he could only speculate.

Seeing the state of shock Molly was in – which had nothing to do with the minimal blood loss she’d suffered from trying to pick up broken glass with her bare hands – he was glad he’d come at once, as Sherlock asked (demanded) he do.

He approached her cautiously, keeping his voice low and soothing as he neared the chair she was huddled into. “Molly, it’s John. Are you all right? What’s happened?”

The cursory look-over he’d given Eddie showed that the lad appeared to be fine with the exception of the thundering great tantrum he’d worked himself into, but there was always the possibility that he was the cause of Molly’s current state – unlikely, in his professional opinion, but still. Not to be ruled out until he heard from Molly herself.

The answer undoubtedly lay within that sheet of paper she was clutching so fiercely. “Molly, you have to let me take care of your hands,” he said, crouching down in front of her and taking the opportunity to peer into her eyes. He rested a cautious hand on her wrist; when she showed no reaction to either his words or his touch, he took her pulse, alarmed to find it rapid and thready. Definitely shock.

He rose to his feet and called down to Mrs. Hudson for strong, sweet tea with a great deal of sugar, promising to come down and fetch it as soon as Eddie – whose cries had considerably subsided since she’d brought him downstairs – was settled.

Upon hearing her answer in the affirmative, he turned back to Molly. No change; face still chalky white, eyes still wide, pupils dilated, blood still seeping from her damaged hands and staining the fabric of her dark blue skirt. He headed for the washroom, found what he needed and returned to her side, carefully cleaning and wrapping her hands – or at least, he did so to the one not clutching that damned piece of paper. When he tried – gently – to pry her fingers away from it, she finally reacted to his presence, crying out and snatching her hand away as if he’d tried to steal Eddie from her grasp.

What the hell was on that piece of paper? Molly was an orphan, had no siblings, no (close) living family members; the only possible answer was that either something was terribly wrong with Eddie, or else something had happened to Sherlock.

He crouched down in front of her again, disconcerted to see that tears were falling down her cheeks, silent, helpless tears that tore at his heart. He placed a gentle hand on her wrist, shaking it just enough to get her attention.

It worked. Her eyes turned to meet his, and he felt his heart breaking further at the absolute despair he read within their brown depths. “Molly, what’s happened? What’s wrong? Sherlock sent me…”

Those last words had a definite effect; with a wrenching gasp her tears turned to heartbroken sobs, and she wordlessly handed him the mangled, bloodstained piece of paper.

As he read it over, disbelief was rapidly replaced by anger, then fury. No, he hadn’t, he wouldn’t…he’d changed, the last two years since his return from the dead. Since Molly had become a central part of his life. Even if he hadn’t, there was no way even the old Sherlock could be this heartless, this cold…but even as his heart denied it, his head coolly pointed out that yes, Sherlock, especially the old, pre-fall Sherlock, could indeed be this much of a bastard.

The letter was simple, written in Sherlock’s elegant, unmistakable scrawl. Addressed to Molly. John read it over again with mounting agitation, then crumpled it up and threw it to the floor with a muttered swear.

_Molly,_ the letter began. No endearment, nothing other than the bald statement of her name. Considering what came after, the lack of endearment at least proved that hypocrisy wasn’t one of his supposed friend’s sins.

_Molly, I apologize for the briefness of this missive and for not being able to deliver this request to you in person. I have been called away on a case that will keep me out of the country for at least three months. During that time, I would appreciate it if you would pack up your things, take Edmund, and leave Baker Street._

_I’ve tried; I really have tried, Molly, but can no longer deny the truth of our untenable situation. Domesticity and all the tedious routine that goes along with it is no longer something I feel capable of dealing with. You knew when you entered into a relationship with me that this day might come; I did warn you. However, you chose not to listen and I chose to be selfish – and vain – enough to believe that I could maintain the facsimile of a romantic relationship without allowing myself to become too entangled in the emotional repercussions._

_I should have known better. Aside from the obvious distraction of having a woman and child living with me, I find myself increasingly irritated with our domestic arrangement, increasingly restless, and rather than take it out on you, I feel this is the best solution. When Edmund is older, if he wishes to establish a relationship with me, perhaps we can arrange something mutually satisfactory._

_Edmund will be well provided for, always. I assure you, the maintenance I’ve arranged for you will be more than adequate to see to his needs. I’ve asked my brother Mycroft to locate a suitable residence for the two of you, and you need not worry about the rent; that will be part of the maintenance agreement his PA will forward to you._

_Again, I apologize for utilizing so impersonal a medium as the written word for this dissolution of our relationship, but the case was pressing and I did not wish to leave you with a false sense of security as to our future together._

_Sherlock_

 

**oOo**

John stared down at the letter in a state of shock almost as profound as the one Molly was clearly experiencing. As if hearing someone else speak, he heard himself say: “No.”

“Is it…do you think it’s the case, that maybe he just…he’s doing this to keep us safe?”

John felt his heart breaking at Molly’s quiet, desperate question. “No,” he said, this time not in denial of Sherlock’s cold-blooded abandonment of his family, but because he believed someone damn well owed Molly the truth. And the truth was, this was classic Sherlock; he wasn’t under duress, wasn’t doing this for Molly and Edmund’s safety, but simply stating the facts as he saw them.

Unpalatable as those facts were to the people closest to him. John closed his eyes against the sight of Molly finally breaking down, sobbing helplessly as she curled up in the chair, face buried in her bloodied and bandaged hands.

“I’m pregnant.”

That jolted him out of his own, private misery; he stared at her, but she wasn’t looking at him, still had her face hidden as she gasped out the words between sobs. “I just…Dr. Singh asked me to meet him, said it was important…the birth control pills I’m on, they had a bad batch go out…just caught the error…and he was seeing all his patients on that brand…” A semi-hysterical laugh escaped her, and John put his arms around her, resting his cheek on her head in a silent attempt at comfort as she continued talking. “Of course it would be me, I’d be the one to actually get pregnant from faulty pills…I’m about six weeks along, I was going to…going to tell…”

Her voice trailed off as John made soothing noises, rubbing her back and wishing desperately that he had more experience in this sort of thing. How do you help someone whose entire world has come crashing down around them?

But then, he couldn’t actually regret not knowing how to help her; who wanted that kind of experience under their belt, after all?

“Molly, I’m going to put you to bed,” he finally opted for saying, gently tugging her to her feet.

She looked up at him then, her face lost, tear-streaked, eyes and nose red, lips trembling as she allowed him to lead her into the bedroom. He tucked her in and settled on the edge of the bed, holding tightly to her with one hand while he fumbled his mobile out with the other.

“Hallo, Mary? Hi.” A pause. “No, actually, everything’s not OK, everything’s shit at the moment – no, not for me, for Molly. Can you…can you fetch over my bag? Yeah, that one. And make sure I’ve got the sedatives in there…low dose.” Another longish pause. “Yeah, I know I only use low-dose for kids and pregnant women. Trust me, it isn’t for Eddie.” The pause this time was even longer, and when he responded, it was with a catch in his voice. “Yeah, Sherlock’s done it this time. I’ll explain when you get here. Love you,” he added just before ending the call.

Molly heard all this as if through a layer of ice, something cold and heavy keeping her apart from the rest of the world. Sherlock had done it this time, John said so, and if John said it, it must be true. The note must be true.

He wanted her out of his life, her and Eddie and the new baby he didn’t even know about – the one he would never know, if this was real and not some horrible nightmare. She clung to that possibility as desperately as she clung to John Watson’s hand; surely she was having one of those impossibly vivid nightmares one had during pregnancy, surely Sherlock hadn’t asked her to take Eddie and leave…

Time passed, how much she had no idea, but suddenly Mary was there, kind, lovely Mary, who bent down to take Molly into her embrace, kissing her on the forehead and telling her thing like _it’ll be all right, we’ll sort this out, don’t worry, Molly…_

She barely registered the words, taking comfort in the other woman’s soothing tone, her sympathetic face, her warm hug. Then those things were gone, replaced by John’s tightly-controlled fury – why was John angry with her? She shrank away from him before realizing, _oh, he’s not angry with me, he’s angry with Sherlock._ He was saying something to her, something about a jab and was it OK and she nodded obediently even if she didn’t quite understand what he was saying, and then things got pleasantly fuzzy and started going dark around the edges and she found herself gradually giving in to the desire to sleep…

_Sleep would be nice_ , she thought, her last clear thought before surrendering. _Sleep would make all this go away…_


	2. Make The World Go Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV, an explanation as to What's Going On...and an uncomfortable encounter in the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The standard disclaimers apply, the standard thanks to my pre-reader (morbidbydefault) and beta (moonmama) also apply! Thanks, ladies, and thanks to any and all who read, kudos, review, pm, etc.

**Three Months Later**

Sherlock strode into the morgue, stopping short when he saw Molly. “Oh, you’re here,” he said ungraciously, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

Molly had stiffened at the sound of his voice, turned warily to face him, and he couldn’t help deducing her as she did so, couldn’t turn his mind off even when he was desperate to ignore the details that jumped out at him – _not enough sleep, not eating properly, the stint in St. Elsbeth’s after her nervous breakdown helped but not enough, she’s pushing herself too soon, it can’t be good for the…_

His mind stuttered to a stop as his consciousness caught up with his observational skills. Molly was pregnant, at least four months along. That last text she’d sent him, telling him they needed to talk…at least now he knew what it had been about.

Although he longed to rush to her side, to explain why he’d done what he’d done – and why he had to continue to keep her at more than arm’s length – all he could do was as he’d been instructed – _ordered_ – to do, and heap cruel insult on top of the injury he’d already caused her. “Really, Molly,” he drawled, lip curled in an expression of contempt. “One accidental pregnancy could be explained away, but two? That smacks of deliberation.”

She’d been standing over a slab, about to make her first cuts into the fresh body lying in front of her ( _elderly Caucasian male, diabetic, unmistakable signs of abuse on his frail, graying body, no doubt inflicted by some sadist masquerading as a home health aide_ ); in four quick strides she was standing in front of him, raising her hand to land a stinging slap across his cheek.

He took it unflinchingly; he deserved it, that and so much more, but Molly could never know how desperately he wanted to apologize to her, to tell her he loved her and Edmund, how eager he was to make this new child’s acquaintance.

Instead, he offered up coldly: “I suppose I deserved that. I’ll have Mycroft increase the maintenance packet and find you a bigger flat.”

Her face crumpled; he steeled himself against the inevitable tears. Molly had always been far too emotionally vulnerable, and here he was, deliberately inflicting damage to her fragile heart. He was a bastard, but he was a bastard who loved his son too much to allow him to die just to save Molly from falling to pieces, shattering and breaking.

Edmund was in mortal danger, and until he found a way to save his son, he would just have to keep on hurting Molly – even if it ended up destroying her beyond the point of redemption.

She would understand, if she knew what was going on. She would approve. 

He could never tell her; if the price for their son’s life was her destruction, she would gladly submit herself to the fires of Hell. And if the price he had to pay was watching, tortured and silent, as she collapsed, then so be it.

“It was a faulty batch of birth control pills,” she said, her voice dull, as if she’d spent all her passion on that slap. She wasn’t even looking at him as she spoke, her eyes on her hands as they fidgeted with the edges of her lab coat. “Dr. Singh told me the day you…I was going to tell you, explain things, b-but you were already…I found the letter you left and after that it didn’t seem…”

She was killing him, destroying him with every softly spoken word, with every pause and hesitation, with every false start and unfinished sentence. Just as he was killing her with his stony silence and cold gaze, with his complete lack of reaction as he was gut-punched, so desperate to ease her pain that he thought he might be physically ill from the need to restrain himself from offering so much as a shred of comfort.

Her stutter was back. He should have expected that; after all, he’d quite literally blown her life apart, he shouldn’t be surprised and it shouldn’t hurt, but it did. This was his fault, all of it; he’d caused her nervous breakdown, _he’d_ broken her heart, and even knowing that she would forgive him if she knew the truth wasn’t enough to dampen the roiling, churning pool of massive guilt that lay so heavy in his heart and his gut.

He’d received a letter as well, three months ago. And it was causing him as much anguish as the one he’d left for her.

The one he’d been _forced_ to leave for her.

The one that was the reason behind the next words to leave his lips.

“Really, Molly, you expect me to believe that? _A faulty batch of birth control pills_?” His voice was a savage mimicry of her own, and she flinched from them as if physically struck. “How convenient. It seems more likely that you sensed my withdrawal and found yourself desperate to find a way to hang onto me. I seemed fond of our first child; surely I would feel the same sense of fondness – or at least responsibility – for a second one, is that how it went, inside your mind?”

She was already so pale; as the remaining blood rushed from her face she rivaled the corpse behind her for whiteness. “You…bastard,” she spat out. “You complete…you have no right…I hate you!” she shouted, shoving past him, stumbling toward the doors, shoulders heaving with her desperate (losing) battle to control her sobs.

He watched impassively as she disappeared from view, waited a few minutes to make sure he wouldn’t catch her up in the corridor, then silently made his way out of the hospital. DI Lestrade would just have to muddle his way through this latest case without Sherlock Holmes’ help.

**Three Months Earlier…**

The anonymous text was ignored, deleted without being read.

The anonymous letter that was slid under the door after Mrs. Hudson had gone out to have lunch with her sister was less easily ignored. Whoever left it had rung the bell insistently until Sherlock had finally given up on ignoring the sound and clattered down the stairs at an irritated clip. He fully intended to pull open the door and give the idiot ringing the bell a piece of his mind, but the sight of the heavy, expensive cream-colored envelope caught his attention just long enough for whoever it was to vanish by the time he actually did yank the door open.

He examined the missive carefully before opening it. It had the look of a wedding invitation or graduation announcement, although it bulked heavier than even a return envelope for the RSVP of either event could account for.

As he picked it up, holding it carefully by the edges, he caught the scent of lilacs, and stiffened.

It was _her_ favorite scent. The Woman. 

Irene Adler.

What the hell was she doing pushing herself back into his life again? Hadn’t he already done enough for her by saving her in Karachi the year before his ignominious almost-defeat at Moriarty’s hands? She must know of his current domestic arrangements; surely this wasn’t another one of her tiresome “dinner” invitations?

He thought she’d given up on trying to seduce him after their shared night – well, week-end, to be accurate – together after he’d saved her from the executioner’s blade. After he’d gotten her safely out of the country and onto a smuggler’s boat headed for an anonymous port on the opposite shore of the Gulf of Oman, she’d asked him if he was finally ready to have dinner with her…and he’d accepted.

It was Moriarty’s fault, all of it. He hadn’t been particularly interested in having sex with anyone since he’d been a teenager – not that he’d indulged, even then; Moriarty’s mocking nickname had been true, after all – but something about the adrenaline of the moment, of having cheated death for the sake of another, had gone straight to his head. He distinctly remembered thinking that now was as good a time to shed himself of that mocking appellation as any, before pulling Irene into his arms and kissing her.

He’d toyed with the idea, since then, on and off in idle moments before Molly turned into something more than a friend to him, that perhaps she’d drugged him, hoping for just such an outcome…but no. He couldn’t blame The Woman for that little experiment in carnality. She’d asked, giving him a mocking smile, and something in him had responded quite hungrily. He’d made the first move; he’d kissed her, allowed her to demonstrate what he’d been missing, why everyone made such a bloody great fuss about sex, and shown him that something he’d been quite content to live without was well worth slotting into his life.

If it wasn’t for that incredibly… _athletic_ …week-end, he never would have begun to view Molly Hooper in a different light once he returned home. Without that week-end, he never would have been able to initiate a physical relationship with her after she helped him fake his death…and never would have been able to fall in love with her.

Not that he’d ever said the words; even though they’d been involved for two years and living together for most of that time – even though they had a son who’d been conceived the careless night he’d returned to the world of the living – he’d never been able to bring himself to say the words.

Molly knew, though. She had to know. He never would have asked her to move in with him if he didn’t. She was a bright girl – woman, he corrected himself irritably. She knew he loved her, even if he’d never said the words.

None of which was getting him any closer to opening the damned envelope he now held in his hands.

He turned and headed up back upstairs. When he reached the kitchen, he laid the envelope on the table and rummaged in a drawer for a knife. He could use the penknife he had on his mantle, but it was currently affixed to a pile of the most ridiculous correspondence he’d ever received in the course of his consulting career, and he was loathe to move it.

Ah, a steak knife. One from Molly’s flat, from her parent’s wedding set, sharp as a scalpel and rarely used. Perfect.

He took a seat and carefully slit open the envelope, but only after donning a pair of the surgical gloves kept around the flat for just such a purpose – and for general cleaning on Molly’s part. Fortunately he’d grabbed a pair of the larger ones; her hands were much smaller than his own and he’d had more than one incident where he’d attempted to put on a glove that was far too small, leaving him swearing and mumbling his annoyance as he rooted through the kitchen drawers in search of the proper size.

Never mind that Molly conscientiously kept hers in a separate drawer from his; he couldn’t be bothered to remember which was which on a day-to-day basis. Far too domestic and tedious to be worth remembering. Her birthday, their anniversary, things like that, on the other he hand, he kept meticulous track of; and Edmund’s birth-date was seared into his memory, never to be removed under any circumstances beyond early-onset Alzheimer’s, unlikely with his family history of perfect health far into old age.

Such thoughts raced through his mind as he laid the knife aside peered inside to ascertain the envelope’s contents.

A carefully folded piece of paper was all he could see, cream colored to match its container. It was wrapped around whatever other pieces of paper were inside, deliberately covering them. How annoying.

There was nothing for it; if he wanted to examine the contents, he would have to slide them out and onto the table.

He took the precaution of laying down a sheet of aluminum foil first, then held the envelope upside down, slipped his fingers inside and carefully drew forth the contents.

The sheet of paper he’d first seen – heavy, stiff, and, as he’d already ascertained, perfectly matched to the envelope – was blank. No words, no watermark, no artwork, nothing pasted to it. Pristine.

He set it aside in order to examine the remainder of the envelope’s contents.

Another, slightly smaller cream-colored envelope, also blank. And inside that…

His breath caught in his throat as he pulled out a recent 5 x 7 photograph of Eddie. His son was asleep in one of the anonymous cots at the St. Bart’s crèche, where Molly took him on days when Sherlock was unavailable to watch him. Days like today, when he was supposed to be out on a case – but had been forced to remain home and wait for a package from Lestrade that was supposed to be delivered later this afternoon, as soon as they received it from their Bristol branch.

His mobile beeped, indicating another text received. He pulled it from his pocket, tore his eyes away from the photograph ( _not one that he or Molly had taken, he’d have recognized it if it was, but certainly taken within the last week_ ) and glanced at the screen.

Another anonymous message. This time, he read it.

_I knew I’d get your attention one way or another. Lovely photo, isn’t it? Read the note and then meet me at the Avant-Garde Bistro. One hour._

It was unsigned. However, it was also…not necessarily from Irene Adler. Oh, it could be from her, there was nothing that overtly alerted him otherwise, nothing that said it wasn’t her…but still. Normally he scorned the concept of “instinct,” but something deep inside was screaming a warning. Something about the message was off, was not right…and judging by the way his guts were clenching, his subconscious wasn’t the only part of him that had had its back put up.

He dropped the phone back in his pocket and returned his attention, reluctantly and with a great deal of trepidation, to the remaining contents of the envelope.

The photo of Eddie. The blank sheet of paper. The other envelope, also blank. Ah, at last. A second sheet of paper, plain white printer paper this time, not the highest gloss or quality, but not the cheapest available, either. Paper any office would have on hand for use in the photo-copier.

This sheet was not blank. As Sherlock read though it once, twice, a third time to confirm that he wasn’t misunderstanding anything – much as his disbelieving mind wanted it to be so – he felt himself tensing, his heart increasing to a rapid tattoo in his chest, breath shortening as he read through the instructions he’d been given.

The instructions, and the threat to his son’s life. He read that section over again, giving it his fullest attention.

_It won’t be obvious. Unless a doctor specifically looks for it, they won’t find it in his blood or urine. And if you give even the slightest hint to his pediatrician that such a thing needs to be looked for, I can assure you, he will not recover from the next dose he’s given._

_I suppose your first thought will be to spirit him away someplace safe, possibly with your brother Mycroft’s help, in order to have the most expert lab in the country concoct an antidote. Certainly you can try that – if, of course, you want your son to die. Because it isn’t just an exotic poison we’ve been giving him, it’s the antidote as well. I’ve timed the delivery of this missive just after he’s received a dose of the former, and believe me when I tell you if you hide your son away from all contact, you will be killing him since he’ll need a dose of the latter before a week has passed – and I am confident that no matter whose mind is put to the matter, the antidote will not be found in time. But by all means, do as your first instinct tells you. Afterwards, when you’re contacting the funeral home, you can console yourself – and the boy’s mother, of course, can’t leave the lovely Dr. Hooper out of this – that you were Doing The Right Thing._

He hated the mocking tone of that paragraph, hated the writer without even knowing for certain who it actually was, would gladly have put his hands around said writer’s throat and squeezed the life out of him – or her – without a second thought, were he to find himself in the position to do so.

But it wasn’t his own life that was being threatened; once again someone was manipulating him, threatening the life of someone he loved – desperately loved, more than he’d ever thought it possible to love another human being – in order to make him do…what, exactly, he didn’t know.

He unclenched his fists and continued his careful perusal of the document, deliberately taking his emotions and stowing them away in the box into which he’d put them so many years ago – a box that no longer seemed up to the job, but still. He had to do it, for Edmund’s sake.

_Furthermore, Mr. Holmes, you won’t know how we’ve administered either the poison or the antidote to him. Could it be in a tainted bottle of juice; could it be in a box of that American cereal he loves so much? Do we soak his diapers in it at the crèche and allow him to absorb it through his skin? Or could it be something we’ve given his mother, so she all unknowingly squirts it into his mouth herself when she breastfeeds him – getting a bit old for that, isn’t he? But dear Dr. Hooper read something about breastfeeding for a full year being healthiest for a child’s immune system, and we both know you cede her the final word in all things kiddie related._

There was a great deal of contempt in that last sentence. If it hadn’t been staggeringly obvious that the writer of the missive had no love for children, that would have brought the point home. Or perhaps it was only _his_ child that the writer held such vitriol toward? Well worth pondering as he prepared for the meeting he’d been ordered to attend.

Further instructions would await him.

He felt sick at the instructions he’d already been given.

_Leave. Go away for three months, to Cairo, Egypt. Irene Adler will be there; she won’t be expecting you, but I can assure you, she will welcome you with open arms – and legs. She’s missed you terribly, and she’s done me a good deed or two over the years, so it’s time I repaid her properly by giving her the one thing she wants most in the world._

_That, Mr. Holmes, would be you. Fancy that; you’ve actually turned a Lesbian straight, or at least temporarily bi-sexual. Impressive, but beside the point. She wants you, she misses you, and she will absolutely believe you when you tell her – and you will, if you value your son’s life – that the tedium of domesticity finally got to you. Word it how you will, but you WILL convince her that you’ve left your wife and child behind to be with her._

_Just as you will use the paper and envelope I’ve enclosed to convince Dr. Hooper of the same. Oh, not that you’ve left her for another woman, that would be too clichéd. Just that you’ve left her. Her and the brat both. You’re stifled creatively, living with them underfoot. She’s blunting the fine edge of your mind. Say something, but under no circumstances will you leave her even a crumb of hope. She must believe that she is being kicked to the curb (lovely American saying, that) and that you want nothing to do with her or her son in future._

_Oh, I’ll throw you a bone; you can offer to have some kind of relationship when widdle Eddie grows up a bit. Just don’t allow yourself to be too…sentimental…when you make the offer._

_Still don’t believe I can do as I’ve said? Meet me, Mr. Holmes, at the Avante-Garde Bistro, and you will leave convinced._

There was no closing salutation, no signature. Just a single initial.

M.


	3. Proof Negative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The villain reveals himself -- and his intentions -- to Sherlock. Who doesn't like them. One. Single. Bit.

The “M” didn’t belong, as he’d assumed at the time, to a dead man. No, strike that; it belonged to a dead man, just not the dead man he’d anticipated (dreaded) seeing when he arrived at the meeting place at the prescribed time.

It wasn’t Jim Moriarty, miraculously still alive after eating the barrel of a revolver and leaving his brains leaking out his ears on the roof of St. Bart’s. If he’d fooled Sherlock the way Sherlock had fooled the rest of the world (excepting Molly), then he was continuing to lay low.

Instead, Sherlock found himself facing a man he’d seen shot down by John Watson on the eve of his own return to the land of the living.

Sebastian Moran.

He was sitting outside the café’s front door, sipping coffee, smoking a cigarette, face hidden behind a newspaper as Sherlock strode up to the entrance. His voice had arrested the detective in mid-step. “Hullo, Mr. Holmes. I was wondering if you’d show up.”

He folded the paper with deliberation, taking another drag off the cigarette hanging from his lips as he placed the paper and coffee cup down on the table and jerked his head toward the light-weight metal-and-rattan chair opposite his. “Have a seat. We have a lot to talk about.”

Sherlock did as he was asked – ordered – willing to go along with whatever the other man wanted, at least until he determined the truth of his assertions that his son was being poisoned in some unknown manner. “You used a body double,” he said after a moment spent sizing each other up had passed in silence.

Moran inclined his head in acknowledgement ( _still blonde, still a military-style crew cut, still the same cruel green eyes and jagged scar by his left eyebrow, but he’s lost at least fifteen pounds in the 18 months since his supposed death_ ). “And you jumped into a truck full of mattresses, doused yourself with your own blood, cut yourself up, dosed yourself with something to simulate death and dropped onto the pavement in time for your best mate to find you and believe you’d killed yourself. We all have our tricks, Mr. Holmes. I needed you off my back, and letting Dr. Watson ‘kill’ me seemed to be the best way to go about it.”

“A pity Jim Moriarty didn’t have any such backup plans in place,” Sherlock sneered.

Moran stiffened at the slight to his former employer ( _lover, best mate, brother-in-all-but-blood?_ ), then visibly forced himself to relax, to adopt a nonchalant pose as he leaned back in his seat and took another drag off his cigarette. “True, Jimmy usually had at least three of those in play at all times, but he thought he had you over a barrel. Then you came up with something that made him realize you had the upper hand, so he killed himself. For real. Quite the mess he left behind, too,” he added, as if reminiscing about his days in the military, with fondness and a bit of disgust at the same time. “Took my men almost an hour to get it all cleaned up before the coppers showed up to investigate the roof.” He grinned, a shark’s grin, all teeth and no mercy. “Wouldn’t want them to suspect foul play, now would we? Give them a reason to doubt your suicide and all of Jimmy’s plans for you would unravel.”

“How loyal of you to want him to succeed even after he’d made such a spectacular failure of himself,” Sherlock responded, sounding bored. “Is there a point to all this, Mr. Moran? Unless you’d rather I called you ‘Seb,’” he added with a deliberate sneer.

Only Jim Moriarty had been allowed to call the ex-military man ‘Seb,’ Sherlock knew that from his investigation into the madman’s right-hand man, even if the true nature of their close relationship continued to elude him ( _hard to deduce when no one else knew, either, except the two who would never reveal it to him_ ). His chosen executioner; the sniper who’d had a bead on John Watson’s head, who would have shot him without a single qualm or pang of conscience just on Moriarty’s say-so.

The one who now claimed to be poisoning Edmund Hooper-Holmes through unknown means. “Let’s dispense with the tedious backstory, shall we?” he said, leaning forward abruptly and resting his arm on the table. “I presume you have more proof than a single snap of my son at the St. Bart’s crèche to back up your ridiculous claims?”

“Seems healthy, doesn’t he?” Moran mused as he took a deliberate sip of his coffee, finishing it off before setting it back on the table. “Shows no symptoms, hasn’t been sick, not coughing, eats all right, nice skin tone…” Then he leaned forward as well, eyes darkening as he and Sherlock locked stares. “Get a urine sample from him. Find someone, some doctor or lab tech, who owes you a favor – and don’t try to tell me you haven’t one on the string, because we both know you’ll be lying if you do – and ask them to analyze the sample off the record, looking for these specific markers.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the table. Sherlock pocketed it without removing his gaze from the man opposite him. “You have two days to check it out. Oh, and don’t tell the little woman about our meeting, or I’ll add her to the ‘experiment.’ Only her dose won’t be slow-acting – and I won’t be giving her the antidote.”

He rose to his feet, dropping his cigarette butt into the empty coffee cup. “Meet me here at the same time in two days, Mr. Holmes, and tell me then if you think I’m lying.” Then he smiled his predator’s smile and strolled away.

He hadn’t had to tell Sherlock not to follow him or go to the police; that much was understood by them both. If he did either, Moran would cut his losses – and Edmund and Molly would both be dead. Either from this mystery toxin or through the more straightforward methods Moran usually preferred.

Instead, Sherlock had taken a urine sample from his son – ridiculously easy to do where little boys were concerned, especially at diaper-changing time – and brought it to a private lab outside of London where, yes, the head technician owed him an enormous favor for saving her brother’s life.

The sample had turned out to be positive for the markers Moran had indicated. Markers for a designer poison of some kind that, so he was informed, would take months to fully analyze or reproduce – and even longer to find an antidote to.

His son was being poisoned. A slow-acting poison, but one that would ultimately prove fatal, would already have done so if he hadn’t been similarly dosed with the antidote. The estimate given to him by the technician was that yes, the person who was being poisoned – he neither identified the victim nor the reason for his analysis – would be dead within a week if the antidote weren’t administered by then.

And no, she told him apologetically, even though he hadn’t asked, she couldn’t even begin to try and concoct an antidote. It was impossible in the timeframe allowed. Their facilities and, she told him with a frankness he couldn’t help but appreciate, her research skills just weren’t up to it.

A sort of numbness fell over him as he returned to the flat later that morning, after first stopping by St. Bart’s to pick up Edmund and take him home in order to spend one last day with his son before his next meeting with Moran – a meeting, he knew, that would end with him doing exactly as he was told. He took a bitter sort of pride in the fact that Molly saw nothing wrong, nothing worrying in his behavior on that last day and night the three of them were to spend together. 

He played with his son while Molly finished out her day at work; took him to the park after lunch, fed him ice cream – could the park vendor be the dispenser of the poison, wittingly or unwittingly? Had it been in the canned, circle-shaped spaghetti Sherlock fed him for lunch in complete disregard of Molly’s request that they try and eat something healthy for once?

There was no way of knowing, short of analyzing everything his son ate or touched or wore – _impossible in the timeframe allowed_ , he thought to himself bitterly as he waited for Molly to return home from St. Bart’s that evening.

After Eddie had been fed and bathed and read to – one story from each parent – and put to bed, he’d taken Molly upstairs to John’s old room, laid her on the day bed and made love to her with a hunger and intensity he knew would have to last him for a long, lonely time. No matter how this all turned out, no matter how long it took him to extricate his son from this torturous predicament – and he would do so, or die trying – he knew the fallout would be devastating to his relationship with his son’s mother.

Especially if he was, indeed, forced to reenter a sexual relationship with Irene Adler.

Afterwards, when they’d lain together, entwined in one another’s arms, Molly dozing lightly against his shoulder as he toyed with her hair and pressed absent kisses to her forehead, he thought about how his life had changed for the better the moment Edmund entered the picture – oh, it had already been dramatically improved by the change in his relationship with Molly from “almost friends” to “more than friends,” but still. His son’s birth had been nothing short of a revelation.

Even though fatherhood had been thrust upon him without warning; even though at first he’d been angry – more at himself than at Molly, although a measure of fault lay with her for their collusion in careless recklessness the night of his triumphant return – and disconcerted and, if he was willing to admit it, terrified; even though he’d felt all those things, all the doubts and fears and anger had fallen by the wayside that night.

When the nurse laid his newborn, squalling, red-faced son in his arms, he’d understood the concept of love in a way he never had before. And when he looked down at Molly, an expression of unabashed wonder on his face, and met her tired, smiling face, he’d understood that he loved her as well. That the child he’d originally worried would be nothing but an unwanted burden, a distraction, was the symbol of that love.

He’d finally fallen prey to sentiment, and now he was helplessly trapped by it. And Sebastian Moran had taken ruthless advantage of that entrapment.

**oOo**

“Why Cairo? Why Irene Adler?” Sherlock asked without preamble as he took a seat opposite Moran in front of the designated café. “Or is this just the beginning of a series of demands you intend to make on me?”

Moran was as relaxed as he had been during their first meeting, his gaze as unwavering, his grin as shark-like. “I owe Irene, I told you that in my note,” he replied, steepling his fingers beneath his chin in what could only be a deliberate parody of Sherlock’s usual “thinking” mode. “Who do you think got me a body double, one that I could use to make even the great Sherlock Holmes believe it was me?” He leaned forward, his grin morphing into one that held actual glee instead of a threat. “After all, she’s rather brilliant at that sort of thing, finding just the right body at just the right time. I’m surprised you didn’t go to her for help when you needed one, instead of that frigid little Hooper bitch.” 

Sherlock fought back the urge to throttle the man sitting opposite him, hands fisted, fingernails digging into palms deeply enough to draw blood. Something in his expression must have alerted Moran, who leaned forward, his own hands going casually to his sides, but the threat was clear since Sherlock had already noted the presence of a gun and a knife beneath the bulky jacket his current nemesis wore. 

“What, you don’t expect me to believe such a mousy little nobody is actually a tiger between the sheets, do you?” Moran sneered, deliberately pressing Sherlock. Testing him, seeing how far he could push him. “She certainly never let Jimmy find out, although he was willing to give her whatever she wanted. To thank her, you know,” he added, clearly watching for Sherlock’s response to his taunting words. “For giving him a built-in excuse to get to see you up close and personal. He thought she’d buy into your ‘he’s gay’ theory, but he also thought he’d get a chance to prove you wrong, was really looking forward to shagging her. Funny,” he added musingly, “he thought he had her down cold, could read her like a book, but she managed to surprise him.” His expression darkened. “He didn’t like that, not one bit, but no one thought hurting her would affect you so he didn’t bother.”

“He made many mistakes. His dismissal of Molly as unimportant was only one,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “You’ve made just as many as he ever did, by the way. Once my son is safe, once he’s been cured, you and I will have another ‘discussion,’ only when that happens,” and it was his turn to grin a shark’s grin, a predator’s grin, “it won’t go nearly as well for you as this one has.”

A flash of something – concern? – appeared and disappeared in Moran’s eyes before he waved Sherlock’s threat away with a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, but right now I hold all the cards, Mr. Holmes, and don’t you forget it. So today you write that good-bye note to Dr. Hooper, kick her out of your flat and your life, and toddle off to Cairo.” He tossed a sheet of paper onto the table. “Our dear Ms. Adler will be staying at this hotel for the next two weeks. Convince her to stay longer, find some trouble for the two of you to get into – oh, and make sure she stays completely _satisfied_ , if you know what I mean.” He offered up a wink and a leering grin, on the off-chance that his current victim had no idea what he meant by “satisfied”, Sherlock supposed as the sick feeling in his stomach – the one that hadn’t gone away since he’d received Moran’s instructions two days ago – grew. “That’s part of the deal. Make her happy, Mr. Holmes. In every way possible. Do it well, and your son lives – and maybe one day I’ll even tell you why it’s so important.”

Then he got up and left, and Sherlock slumped in his chair, mind working furiously – and futilely – at the problem he now faced.

Destroy Molly’s happiness, the life they’d created together…or watch her die first, then their son.

Hobson’s choice, when it came down to it. Saving Edmund’s life was the only choice he could possibly make.

With heavy heart, he rose to his feet and headed back to his flat, to write the most painful note of his life.

All for Edmund, he told himself over and over again in the endless cab ride home.

It didn’t help the sorrow that clenched his heart. He was in this dilemma because of sentiment, and sentiment would continue to plague him until it had come to some sort of a conclusion.

For the first time in his life, he considered offering up a prayer to a deity he’d never believed in, for the sake of his son’s innocent life.

Then he entered his flat and proceeded to demolish the life he’d embarked on with Molly.


	4. Suspicious Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene and Sherlock spend some, ahem, "quality time" together in Cairo -- one of them willingly, the other, not so much. So...dubcon, at the very least.

**Cairo – Two Months Ago**

“Darling, this has been a great deal of fun, but I do wish you’d tell me what’s really going on.”

Sherlock had been leaning on the railing of their hotel room’s balcony, had heard Irene come up behind him and felt the hand she laid on his shoulder as if it were a brand. Marking him. Tainting him. None of that showed in his face as he turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised in an expression of mild inquiry, showing nothing of the sudden tension her words had raised. 

He studied her as he waited for her to elaborate on her question ( _not unexpected, he’d known she was clever enough to figure out that something was not right with his story but had been willing to swallow it as long it gave her what she wanted_ ). She’d gone dark blonde, with hair extensions to bring the thick mane of hair down to the middle of her back, complementing the deep blue contacts she now wore, and the subtle use of makeup that made her eyes appear enormous on her face.

Attractive, he supposed, but he far preferred Molly’s natural beauty. And yes, she was beautiful, he’d come to appreciate just how beautiful she was, inside and out, after she’d literally saved his life by “killing” him.

It was her face he pictured when he had sex with the woman standing beside him now, her body he envisioned beneath his when they were in bed together.

He hoped that wasn’t what brought on this sudden fit of perceptiveness on Irene’s part, that he hadn’t let something slip, let her see that it wasn’t her he was visualizing when they were together. Eddie’s life depended on him keeping this woman happy, satisfied – and completely in the dark as to his true reasons for being here. “What do you think is going on?” he asked, quirking his lips up in a small smile. The one that usually made her pulse race.

Apparently she was in no mood for such distractions today. Her gaze remained serious as she said: “I saw you, the night Edmund was born.” She nodded at his startled expression. “Oh, yes, I was one of the many, many nurses who popped in and out of the operating theater that night. I didn’t see the actual birth, mind you, not my thing, really, but I did see you when you were holding your son for the first time. The look on your face…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes went distant as she relived the memory. “And the look you gave Molly…” she shook her head. “I’ll never forget it. That’s not a look you give a woman whose life you’re going to utterly destroy nine months later. So tell me.”

He shrugged, tilted his head to one side and offered her a lazy smile. “I was bored. Once the novelty wore off, once I realized how much time a woman and child in my home were taking up, how difficult it was to concentrate on the work, the damned day-to-day tedium of keeping up appearances…” He shrugged again. “Yes, the night my son was born was a…rather emotional…time for me, but even intense emotional reactions can be fleeting rather than life-altering. My mistake was believing those feelings to be the latter rather than the former.”

She continued to study him, head tilted to the side, finger tapping her jaw as she considered his words. _Believe the lie_ , he silently willed her even as his fingers reached out to toy with the tie to her dressing gown. “It still doesn’t explain why that sent you running to my side,” she finally said, but he saw the slight quirking of the corners of her lips, the softening of her sharp gaze, and knew he’d succeeded in putting her off the scent for at least a little while longer.

One month down, two to go. And then he would be free of her, free of this lie he was living.

As for being free of Moran’s malign influence…that remained to be seen. He’d put certain plans into motion; all he had to do now – all he _could_ do now – was wait and see how long it would take for them to come to fruition.

Irene’s hands slid along his collar, and he pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her lips, taking his time, allowing none of his self-hatred to show as he teased her lips with his tongue, patiently waiting for her mouth to open beneath his, as he knew it would.

When the kiss ended, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him, a half-smile forming on her lips. “Oh well, whatever it is, I suppose you’ll tell me when you’re ready,” she sighed, then ran her fingers down his chest, scratching lightly through the thin material of his shirt. “Who am I to look a gift…Holmes…in the mouth?”

Then her lips claimed his in a harder, more demanding kiss than the one he’d given her, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch himself yet again making a mockery of his relationship with Molly.

Although he returned the kiss with as much false fervency as he could muster, his mind was racing. Irene not only suspected something, she suspected something _specific_. Her choice of words just now had been deliberate, no accident. She never spoke in clichés unless she meant something entirely different from the obvious.

The only question was, how much did she know? 

He’d already determined that she wasn’t in on it, at least, not completely; she’d been truly surprised to see him waiting for her that first night, leaning against the front desk of her hotel with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and an ironic smile on his lips. He still hadn’t ruled out the possibility that she was working for or with Moran; she kept herself quite busy with mysterious errands and clandestine meetings she kept him well away from during the days and sometimes long into the night – but she always returned to the hotel, to the bed they’d shared for the last month, even if dawn was just beginning to break.

His cover story of boredom and impatience with Molly and domesticity, combined with a case he was just as vague about describing as she was when talking about her own activities, had been enough to keep her unquestioning until now.

At least, she’d been unquestioning _out loud_. Who knew how long she’d doubted him? Probably for the same amount of time he’d doubted her own excuses for lingering in Cairo – mostly repairing business connections she’d been forced to sever upon her “death” – which meant, since day one.

However, even with that very broad hint she’d just dropped, he couldn’t take the risk of confiding in her. Not until he’d had time to process this new development. 

Time alone. Tonight, after…

After he’d once again appeased her considerable sexual appetites. Thank God she’d left her dominatrix persona behind, at least when it came to him. That made it much easier for him to pretend, to concentrate on keeping her _happy_ , as he’d been commanded by Moran. 

Which he had to continue to do. For another. Bloody. Two. Months.

Which left him few options at the moment, not with her tongue down his throat, with her hands busy undoing the buttons to his shirt and gliding across his chest with practiced ease.

If his mind wasn’t one hundred percent on her needs, at this very moment, the game could be up – and Edmund would pay the price for his father’s lack of concentration.

So he put aside all questions of motive and who knew what and when did they know it, and instead allowed himself to be pulled back inside the luxurious bedroom of their hotel suite, his hands as busy roving over Irene’s body as hers were over his.

When she was asleep, he would slip away for a smoke, a glass of wine, and the time he so desperately needed to put his vaunted intellect back to work.

**oOo**

He left her a note, of course. He’d gotten into the habit, made it part of this new persona he was wearing like an ill-fitting suit. Normally he’d have just texted her, but the hotel stationery was right there, so why not use it?

_At our usual café. Meet me there for drinks if you’ve no other appointments this evening, or call if you’d rather go elsewhere. S_

As he gazed unseeingly out at the parade of passers-by, camels and overladen donkeys and bicycles clogging the narrow, cobbled streets of the Khan el-Khalili, he puffed on one cigarette after another, chain smoking in a way he hadn’t done since his two agonizingly long years at uni.

The glass of white wine he’d ordered sat untouched on the table beside his overflowing ashtray, and his fingers were tapping an impatient rhythm on the scarred wooden surface.

Before he started the time-consuming process of mentally analyzing every fact he knew about this far-too-personal “case” he found himself enmeshed in, he shot off a quick text to his brother.

The response he received was prompt, informative – and utterly maddening.

_The flat has been arranged for. Molly has experienced a nervous breakdown and is recovering in St. Elsbeth’s. John and Mary have temporary custody of Edmund, whose health remains exemplary. No other news to impart._

A nervous breakdown. He’d driven Molly to that, taken someone who’d gone from a stuttering, self-conscious mess whenever she was in his presence to a strong, confident woman and lover and mother – and turned her back into a quivering mess, worse off than if she’d never met him. One unable to cope with what he’d done to her, who’d been unable to care for herself, much less their son…he felt sick, a wave of self-loathing rolling over him strong enough to buckle his knees if he hadn’t already been sitting.

It was all on him. He clenched the mobile so tightly it would have shattered had it been made of more fragile materials. The edges dug into the palms of his hand hard enough to leave marks, and he had to deliberately ease his grip in order to keep those marks from turning into cuts that would give his seething rage and guilt away to Irene as clearly as if the words “LIAR” were branded on his forehead.

He forced himself to reread the message. The comment about Edmund’s health…of course, he should have known his brother would understand that something more was going on than Sherlock simply reverting to type and once again letting down the people who most depended on him. He’d expected Mycroft to figure things out eventually, was grudgingly impressed at how swiftly his brother had discovered the truth.

Still, it wouldn’t do to raise any red flags for whoever was monitoring his calls. He fired off a response that had nothing to do with how he really felt and everything to do with maintaining his cover at any cost.

_I didn’t ask for tedious details, just confirmation that the flat and maintenance packet have been arranged,_ he texted in reply, showing no outward signs of the stabbing pain in his gut at the coldness of his response. _Use the post restante address I gave you to forward the paperwork so this can be done and over with. Will be in Cairo another two months yet._ He paused, finger on the “Send” button, then added one last bit: _You were right, domesticity didn’t suit me at all; I’m surprised you haven’t taken the opportunity to tell me ‘I told you so.’_

Mycroft had, indeed, told him that – and then promptly taken it back once he realized how suitable Molly was for his brother, and how fatherhood had taken a great deal of the edge off his temperament. “I told you so” was his confirmation to Mycroft that he’d correctly interpreted the situation, that Edmund was the target.

He’d waited until now to contact his brother for multiple reasons, even though Moran had put no restrictions on his activities other than not giving Molly any shred of hope and keeping Irene Adler happy. That did not, however, mean he hadn’t found a way to intercept Sherlock’s phone messages, or that he didn’t have someone watching him.

In fact, it appeared Moran had an entire network of loiterers and ostensible workmen or passers-by keeping an eye on Sherlock whenever he was out in public. Which was only to be expected.

Texting his brother could be considered out of the ordinary, but considering that Mycroft had been put in charge of getting Molly and Edmund settled, he felt safe enough sending his coolly-worded message: _Have the arrangements been made to move Molly and Edmund into a separate residence yet? I’d really rather not return home and find that things are still unsettled._

All a desperate code of his own for _tell me Molly and Edmund are all right._

Well, Edmund was healthy, at least. He would hold onto that knowledge. And Molly would recover, he knew she would, knew her better than any other person he’d ever known. Better than Mycroft, better than John…

He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as a fresh spasm of pain clenched his gut and squeezed his heart. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of John, of the increasingly angry voice messages his best friend – _former_ best friend at this point in time – had sent him since Sherlock had told him Molly would need him.

_Sherlock, you bastard, tell me this is some kind of sick experiment to find out if Molly loves you enough to stay even after you order her to leave, because if it is…I will personally beat the shit out of you when you get home. Or hold you down while Molly does. Call me back and tell me what’s going on, don’t leave us believing you did something this cold-hearted just because you’re scared or having second thoughts._

John’s voice had been hurt, crackling with anger and thick with what Sherlock knew were unshed tears by the end of that first message. Sherlock had deleted it from his phone without responding. He responded to none of them, not one of the others that followed, until suddenly they’d stopped coming. And he’d been left to contemplate the collateral damage that Moran’s blackmail had created. As he’d no doubt anticipated it would – and as Sherlock had managed to trick himself into believing could be minimized. But if he gave John hope, encouragement, anything at all, the consequences would be dire. And so he remained silent.

_Sherlock, I know you’re getting these messages, your mobile is practically glued to your hand when you’re on a case and Lestrade says he’s heard from you so I know you’re still alive, at least. Call me back. NOW. I don’t care how bloody important the case is, this is more important. I need you to explain things to me…if this is Reichenbach all over again, I need to know. I can help you, make things easier for Molly even if you have to keep her out of the loop…_

His voice had held no hope that this was the case; after all, who had two madmen with guns pointed at loved one’s heads, herding you into desperate acts meant to protect said loved ones while at the same time wounding them deeply? 

Having a nemesis, an arch-enemy, had never seemed so bleak and destructive as it did now.

_Sherlock, you’d better bloody well stay away from us – ALL of us, and you damn well know who I mean – when you get back. Molly’s…not doing well._ The sound of a ragged, indrawn breath; Sherlock could picture John rubbing his hand over his face during the lengthy pause that followed. Undoubtedly that had been the message he’d left after Molly had been taken to St. Elsbeth’s. _It’s all your fault, every last bloody bit of it. All on you, and since you’re not returning any of my calls, I guess that means it’s real, that you meant all those horrible things you wrote in that fucking letter you left for Molly to find – nice job on that, by the way, very thoughtful of you._

Another one of those ragged breaths, another chance for Sherlock’s heart to tighten painfully, for the guilt to try and overwhelm him. 

_Anyway, if it wasn’t true, you’d have found a way to let me know by now. Because I know you don’t want us all to hate you – or maybe you do? Whatever. I’m done. Don’t bother looking me up when you get home, if you ever do come home. Mrs. Hudson may be willing to forgive you, but as for the rest of us…no._

_We’re finished._

Finished. Even if he was able to dig himself out of this mess – surely Moran couldn’t go on poisoning and curing his son indefinitely, surely he had something more in mind than simply keeping Sherlock in Irene’s embrace for three months, although he’d only said that further instructions would await him upon his return to London – even then, the damage might truly be irreparable this time. It would be truly ironic if he came out of this with his son’s life, and no one willing to speak to him except Irene…

Irene. He needed to focus on her. Simply helping Moran find a body double and fake his death ( _really, the three of them ought to form a club, the Not Actually Dead Club, with secret handshakes and annual meetings and dues_ ) wasn’t explanation enough for why the bastard felt she deserved some kind of reward. No, there was more to it than that. There had to be.

He sat, and he smoked, and his mind raced at top speed, reviewing data, formulating theories – and ultimately coming to some very interesting conclusions.

Moran wasn’t just torturing Sherlock or rewarding Irene. He was reconstructing Moriarty’s criminal empire. With Sherlock safely out of London – out of England – he could begin to re-spin the web Moriarty’s suicide and Sherlock’s two years of patient unraveling had all but destroyed.

Or so he’d believed. He’d allowed himself to be distracted by not only sentiment (although he refused to give it up now that he’d allowed it into his life) but by a false sense of security, by believing the lie of Moran’s death when it had been nothing but a shadow-play meant to put him off the scent.

And it had worked. He’d allowed it to. And here he was, trapped in Cairo with a woman he neither fully despised nor felt anything stronger for than, perhaps, admiration – a woman who had her own agenda.

Or was it Moran’s agenda? Irene didn’t need to know that Sherlock had been handed to her on a silver platter in order to be in league with Moran. One fact did not preclude the other.

He needed more data, more facts. He needed to discover what Irene’s real purpose for being in Cairo was.

Once he knew that, he could make his plans. Until then, he would have to rely on Mycroft to find a way to keep Edmund safe, possibly whisk him out of harm’s way in his brother’s absence and possibly end this entire impossible situation that much sooner.

For once in his life, Sherlock felt no resentment toward his brother, no anger or impatience or self-loathing for being forced to seek out his help.

If Mycroft could save Edmund, Sherlock would spend every bloody Sunday for the rest of his life at his elder brother’s oversized country home; would take on any case he cared to offer – would even, loathe though he’d always been to do so, take a government position as Mycroft had been pressuring him to do ever since he’d cleaned up his act and stopped taking drugs, back in his uni days.

Whatever it took. He’d already sacrificed so much; forgiving Mycroft for past misdeeds – _thanking_ him – would be a small price to pay.


	5. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to London only to make a shocking discovery regarding Eddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd this go-round, so any and all mistakes are mine.

Sherlock had never been so relieved to see London – or so reluctant. He'd been released from his temporary exile to Cairo at the end of the promised three months, leaving Irene behind with a show of reluctance he was fairly certain fooled neither of them. But although Irene had hinted at knowing he was under duress that one time, she'd never brought it up again, never dropped any other hints that showed she continued to harbor doubts about his true reasons for lingering with her for so long.

Because she respected his silence, didn't care, or because Moran had warned her to back off?

Either way, the end result was the same; Sherlock was in London, and Irene was still in Egypt, although she'd left Cairo for Alexandria on some mysterious errand he had no patience to try and ascertain.

The only thing currently on his mind was confirming that Edmund remained healthy, and that Molly...

No. He couldn't let himself think about Molly at all, or else he'd completely fall apart. Although that would undoubtedly provide Sebastian Moran with a great deal of entertainment, it was hardly a productive way of dealing with his current situation. He allowed himself to linger on some of his best memories of his time with her on the flight back to England, then reluctantly closed those memories up into the attic of his mind palace, to be brought out only when this situation had been resolved.

Now was not the time to try and come to terms with the likelihood that his relationship with Molly had been irrevocably destroyed, although he would consider it a fair trade as long as Edmund came out of this alive and healthy.

Even if he never saw his son again when this was all over, he would learn to live with the loss. Knowing Edmund and Molly were safe and alive and no longer threatened by Moran – who was not coming out of this alive, not this time – would have to be enough to sustain him the rest of his life.

After all, he’d resigned himself to loneliness long before they came along, before John came along. The work would continue, the work would have to be enough.

**oOo**

John Watson was not happy. To put it mildly.

That fucking bastard. How could he have done something so monumentally cruel? What did he want to do, cause Molly to miscarry, for God’s sake?

Sherlock been back almost two weeks now, and John still harbored dark suspicions about the nature of the suspiciously protracted “case” Sherlock had supposedly been called away for after dropping that emotional bomb of a letter on Molly. She’d been quiet and withdrawn the last few days when he spoke to her over the phone, and he’d finally coaxed the truth out of her during a visit he paid to her when Mary was at work.

She’d seen Sherlock. The bastard had the gall to stroll into the St. Bart’s morgue as if nothing had changed, as if it wouldn’t absolutely _destroy_ Molly for him to just show up with no warning. Yeah, so it was supposed to be Molly’s day off, but still, didn’t he have any shame? And Lestrade, that prick, John was almost as pissed off at him as he was at Sherlock. Couldn’t the copper get some other big-brained shithead to look over his corpses for him?

It wasn’t just that Sherlock had strolled in as if he owned the place (the way he’d always done); oh no, he couldn’t possibly leave it at that. Instead of just turning around and heading back the way he’d come, he’d actually commented on Molly’s pregnancy.

John hadn't been able to worm any details out of her, but by the drawn whiteness of her face, whatever Sherlock had said had hurt her deeply. Yes, she'd admitted that he’d made some off-cuff remark about increasing the maintenance agreement and having Mycroft find her a bigger flat, but that, John knew, even without verbal confirmation from Molly, hadn’t been the end of it.

It was the last bloody straw. John fumed all the way to 221B, more than ready to go back on his private vow never to speak to that sodding twat ever again, and instead deliver a well-deserved piece of his mind. As well, perhaps, as that beating he’d threatened three months earlier. How dare that stupid, bloody tit add to the damage he’d already wreaked on his girlfriend and son’s lives? Why the fuck couldn’t he just do the right thing and keep his stupid gob shut? Or just stay in Cairo, or Canada, or Antarctica?

With thoughts like those chasing themselves around his mind, John was in a fine temper by the time he reached his destination. He didn’t bother to knock; he’d never returned his keys, been told by Molly and Sherlock both that they’d rather he kept them, and so he had. 

He pounded his way up the stairs, not caring if Sherlock heard him coming. He hoped he’d deduced John’s mind and was ready with some stinging remark. He welcomed the idea; it would make it that much more satisfying when his fist slammed into the taller man’s aristocratic nose… 

When he pushed the door open – slammed it, actually – however, he could do nothing more than stop and stare as he saw Molly Hooper standing there, tears flowing from her eyes while Sherlock handed her a handkerchief. 

What the hell?!?

He said the words aloud, apparently, as Molly started and turned to stare at him. How had she missed hearing him slamming open the door? “John,” she said, and her broken voice sent a sharp pain through his gut. 

“What’s he done now?” he growled, lunging forward and pushing Molly away from Sherlock. Standing between the two of them, one hand already clenching into a fist even as the other one remained protectively against Molly’s abdomen. He felt the baby kick, and noted it with absent approval. The baby seemed to be fine in spite of all the emotional stress his (or her) mother was currently enduring. Good. One good fucking thing to hold onto, at least…

“It isn’t Sherlock,” he heard Molly saying from behind him. “It’s Eddie, he’s gone missing…”

All the built-up adrenaline seemed to drain abruptly out of his body; he felt his face go cold and knew he’d turned pale.

And all the while Sherlock simply stood there and watched him through the emotionless mask he’d long ago perfected, eyes cold, face composed, body still.

Perhaps…a bit _too_ still?

With a terrible clarity he recognized the nature of the unnatural stillness (if such a saying wasn’t a contradiction, nothing else was, but he knew what he meant); it was the way Sherlock held himself when he was trying desperately to cover up some kind of emotional reaction.

It wasn’t the stillness of a man who couldn’t care less what happened to his ex or his child.

In that moment, as John met Sherlock’s icy blue eyes, an ice that the doctor knew wasn’t more than a fragile sheen on top of turbulent waters, he _knew_.

“You. Fucking. BASTARD!” he shouted, right into Sherlock’s face. “How long? How long have you known Eddie was in danger and not told us? Answer me,” he added in a low growl as he heard Molly’s sudden gasp of comprehension from behind him.

“Since two days before I left for Cairo.”

Those words, quietly spoken, confirmed everything John had ever suspected – and discarded in the absence of proof, in the absence of any kind of communication or contact with Sherlock – about this entire fucked up situation.

Sherlock had done everything he’d done because Eddie was being threatened. Another life was at stake, and he was blackmailed or otherwise forced into his actions.

Only this time, it wasn’t just John’s mental stability that had been affected. Yeah, Sherlock might have done what he’d done to protect Eddie, but at an unforgivably high cost to Eddie’s mother.

He punched him. Hard. And Sherlock stood there and took it, rocking back on his heels, arms flailing as he just barely maintained his balance, but with no other reaction except to shift his gaze from John’s furious face to some point just over his shoulder.

To Molly.

When Sherlock spoke again, it was directly to her, as if John had never punched him, had vanished from between the two of them. “I’m sorry,” he said, just as quietly, his face suddenly transformed from the icy mask he’d been desperate to maintain just moments earlier into something tortured and distorted with pain. “I was trying to protect him. He was being poisoned. I’m sorry, Molly. I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Her face had gone white, John noted as he turned to face her. Whiter, he corrected himself as she said, “Who? Who has him, Sherlock?”

He seemed to be steeling himself, even allowing his gaze to flick toward John's furious face as if the answer involved him somehow. And when he answered Molly's question, John knew why. “Sebastian Moran.”

“He's dead. I shot him,” John responded without hesitation. “In the fucking face. You were there.”

“Body double,” Sherlock replied succinctly. “Irene Adler arranged it for him.”

John knew his face must read like the very definition of bewilderment as he processed that remarkable statement. “She's...she's dead,” he stammered, head whirling.

“Alive,” Sherlock contradicted him, then returned his attention to Molly, who was wringing her hands and shaking her head as if in anticipation of more bad news. Which, clearly, Sherlock was about to deliver. “And before you ask, no, Moriarty is still dead. But Irene is the reason I was in Cairo. Moran needed her to perform some particularly delicate negotiations while he began to reestablish Moriarty's criminal network.”

“So why did he need you there?”

Molly's question was barely a whisper, and John knew, he just fucking knew, the answer wasn't going to be one either of them would like.

Apparently now that his secret was out, Sherlock was all about full disclosure. Later, when John had time to process it all, he would find himself wishing that the other man had kept this particular detail to himself, or at least saved it for a private confessional with Molly, but no, the words had spilled out of him as if keeping them inside were causing him physical pain.

And maybe they were, because repeating them aloud certainly caused pain to the two listeners. “He needed me to keep her...distracted,” Sherlock said, his voice not much louder than Molly's. “To keep her happy, he said. But it was all an excuse to keep us both out of London – ”

Molly stepped around John as Sherlock fell abruptly silent. She walked right up to him, gazing up at him as she asked the obvious question. The one John knew she wouldn't want to hear, the one he certainly didn't want to hear, since he already had a feeling he knew what the answer would be. “How, exactly, did you keep her 'happy'?”

Sherlock’s eyes remained locked with hers as he answered, while John looked unhappily from one to the other, wishing he were anywhere else but in Sherlock’s flat. Or on Baker Street. Or in fucking London at all. “Sex.”

Christ. Sex. Flatly said, that single word doing more damage to Molly than all whatever horrible things he'd said to her in the morgue.

John braced himself, waiting for Molly to collapse in tears, to drop back into the depression that had followed her nervous breakdown, for her to shatter, for any one of those reactions or all of them.

He wasn't prepared for her to raise her hand and land a stinging slap across Sherlock’s face. Then she turned on her heel and marched to the door, pausing only to turn her head back and say: “You find him, Sherlock. You get our son home safely, or so help me God I will kill you myself.”

Then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her as John looked from where she'd just been to Sherlock. Gauging his reaction to all this.

“I deserve so much worse than that,” he said in answer to John's unasked question. “And I know I don't have any right to ask...”

“Damned right you don't,” John snapped back, crossing his arms across his chest and glowering at Sherlock. “But,” he added with a sigh, “yeah. I'll help you. Because I want Eddie safe just as much as you and Molly do.” He gave his friend – yeah, he'd think of him that way again, impossible not to now, no matter how angry he still felt – a hard look. “But after this is over and Eddie's safe, you and me, we're gonna have a little chat about how NOT to handle things next time something like this happens.”

Sherlock's response was a sharp nod, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he took a chair and proceeded to explain everything he knew or had deduced to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems John has forgiven Sherlock a little too easily, rest assured that "forgiven" might be too strong a word just yet. Stay tuned for the next chapter to find out more!


	6. Chapter 6

John listened as Sherlock spoke, not interrupting until the other man came to the end of his story. When he finished, John nodded thoughtfully. “So,” he said after a moment’s silence while he struggled to process everything he’d just been told. “You still haven’t said why you felt it necessary to tear Molly down the way you have. I know you said something to her in the morgue,” he added, “something about the baby, yeah? Explain to me why you had to do something that cold, that cruel. As if that fucking letter wasn’t bad enough.”

Yes, he’d come back to letting himself think of Sherlock as his friend, but it wasn’t quite _all is forgiven come home_. Not yet. Not until he understood the things Sherlock _wasn’t_ saying.

Sherlock tried his usual trick of looking haughty and disdainful and staring John down, but he wasn’t having any of it and simply waited, giving Sherlock back his own patented look. The one that combined _a bit not good, Sherlock_ and _don’t even think you can get out of this one_.

With a huff of air that might signify impatience if one were feeling ungenerous, and might simply signify capitulation if one weren’t – John wasn’t sure where he fell at the moment – Sherlock slumped back in his seat. “Moran,” he said after a minute. “For some reason that I have yet to discover, he appears to…hate…Molly.”

John knew he must have looked about as flummoxed as he felt as he stared at Sherlock. He hadn’t known what the answer to his question was going to be, but it wasn’t…that. “Who could possibly hate Molly?” he demanded, rubbing one hand along the back of his neck in a gesture of agitated confusion. “She’s as harmless as a fly, never did anything to anyone as far as I know…did she?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his gaze focused on something off to the left and slightly above John’s head. The middle distance, he believed that was called. “The closest Moran has come to explaining his irrational focus on Molly is when he told me she’d rejected Jim Moriarty because of me.”

John’s forehead furrowed in further confusion. “What did he expect? Wasn’t he deliberately playing gay, knowing that you would pick up on it and say something to Molly? Doing her a kindness, wasn’t that how you put it?”

Sherlock winced a bit, either at John’s sarcasm or in memory of his own callous dismissal of Molly’s latest – at the time – romance. “She’s always had terrible taste in men, present company included,” he admitted ruefully. “But from what Moran says, she didn’t react the way Moriarty expected her to…and he didn’t like that. Although why that should bother Moran as much as it does continues to baffle me. It’s as if he takes Molly’s rejection of ‘Jim from IT’ personally.”

“Do you know what the, um, relationship between those two was, Moran and Moriarty?” John asked, not sure why he was putting it so delicately. “Were they close, friends? Or was Moran just an employee?”

“Difficult to say. They definitely had a personal relationship beyond whatever business they conducted together,” Sherlock replied, still gazing off into nothing. “Moran, in fact, has made this entire thing personal,” he added slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. Or memory. Or possibly indigestion; it was hard to tell with Sherlock, always. “He wanted me out of London in order to ensure that I was unable to interfere in whatever plans he has for restoring Moriarty’s criminal syndicate here, but instead of simply killing me – which he admits he could easily have done – he’s concocted this elaborate, highly emotional scheme to destroy my personal life. He’s been poisoning my son, he threatened to kill Molly – and he explicitly instructed me to leave not even _a crumb of hope_ for her when I left.”

That last bit sounded like a direct quote; when pressed, Sherlock rose to his feet and extracted a single sheet of paper from his bedroom. He passed it to John and waited silently while the other man read it over.

John gave a whistle of dismay when he finished, looking up at Sherlock with a bit more sympathy in his eyes as he did so. “That bastard,” he said softly. “Christ, Sherlock, no wonder…this must have been killing you.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock replied simply, then lowered his eyes and trained his gaze on the floor. “What I don’t understand is why Moran has taken my son now. He told me to return to London, indicated that I should simply go on with my life as if I had, indeed, simply been away on a case, and that I would hear from him within a few weeks of my return. If I continued to do as he said – if I continued to push Molly away using the harshest means possible – then he would administer the antidote to Edmund, inform me when he’d done so, and that would be the end of it.”

“Until the next time he decided you were in his way,” John added dourly, earning a sharp nod of agreement from Sherlock. “We have to find Eddie and stop Moran, for good this time.”

“Well, well, sounds like I got here just in time.”

Both men looked up at the sound of that unexpected – feminine – voice.

Standing in the door to the flat, one hand resting elegantly on the knob, was Irene Adler.

**oOo**

Sherlock frowned at his unexpected – and uninvited and unwelcome and so many other “un” words they hardly bore thinking – guest. “I see you haven't lost your touch,” he said, knowing how sour his voice must sound and not bothering to hide it.

Clearly Irene had overheard enough of his and John's conversation to understand what was going on. Or else she'd already known; he never had been able to deduce the extent of her involvement in his own coercion, even after he'd determined to try to do so.

Yes, Irene had definitely been working for Moran in a quasi-consulting capacity. Yes, she definitely knew something was suspicious about Sherlock's presence in Cairo, but those were the only two certainties he'd left Cairo with.

Irene was supposed to have gone to Madagascar after she left Alexandria. Therefore her presence in London was either due to Moran's machinations...or else she'd returned of her own volition against orders.

She raised an eyebrow as she gazed at him, clearly amused by his attempt to deduce her reasons for being in his flat. “Sherlock, if you want to know, all you have to do is ask,” she purred as she entered the flat and took a seat next to a very uncomfortable looking John.

She smiled over at the older man. “Really, Dr. Watson, you should know by now I don't bite. Unless invited to do so, of course.”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock ground out. “Do you know anything about my son's kidnapping?”

Irene's flirtatious facade immediately vanished beneath a much more serious expression. “Only in the negative sense.” She met Sherlock's eyes squarely. “Moran didn't take him. In fact, he's furious about it. It was all I could do to convince him that you weren't trying to double-cross him.”

That was...unexpected. Entirely unexpected. If Moran hadn't taken Edmund, then every theory Sherlock had formulated fell completely apart. “Perhaps I shouldn't have counseled Molly not to call the police,” he murmured, at a complete loss for one of the few times in his life. Had he wasted valuable time, time his son might not have if Moran hadn't administered the antidote before Edmund was taken? 

Irene shook her head. “No, that was absolutely the right thing to do,” she said insistently, leaning forward as if to lay her hand on his arm, then pulling back as if realizing how inappropriate such a gesture would be. Or perhaps he was reading more into that slight movement than was actually there.

As if John wasn’t even in the room with them, she asked the most incredibly inappropriate question he could have imagined, considering her stated purpose was to assist them in finding his son.

Pitching her voice to a low, intimate level, she gazed intently into Sherlock’s eyes and asked: “Was it all play acting, Cairo? Do you have any real feelings for me at all, Sherlock?”

He returned her gaze coolly. “If I answer incorrectly, will you withhold whatever information you purportedly are here to share with me?”

She sighed and leaned her head against the back of the sofa, closing her eyes as if keeping them open had suddenly become too much work – or as if she found the sight of him suddenly painful.

Whether it was an act or sincere wasn’t worth deducing. He simply remained in his own seat and waited for her to speak, while John looked uncomfortable and fidgeted as if he wasn’t sure whether he should remain seated or bolt from the room.

Sherlock had no desire for him to go, and flicked a glance at him that he hoped conveyed that desire. John met his gaze and settled, giving a slight nod of understanding as both men continued to wait for Irene Adler to cease her posturing and answer the question Sherlock had just put to her.

“No, it will make no difference,” she finally said, opening her eyes and gazing sadly at Sherlock. Who suddenly had the impression that it wasn’t really posturing on her part. Not this time. There was a lurking sadness in her eyes that caused his gut to clench in momentary…what? Guilt, regret? Neither emotion mattered, not while his son’s life was at stake. “And you’ve answered that question already, so I won’t press you.”

She rose to her feet and opened the small clutch purse she’d laid on her lap when she sat down. From it she removed a single, folded sheet of paper. Without looking at it or referring to it in any way, she handed it to Sherlock, who’d also risen to his feet – John as well, although his change in position was no doubt due to ingrained manners rather than a desire to retain whatever physical advantage he had over this woman – and stepped into his personal space in order to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Good-bye, Mr. Holmes,” she said, then turned and left the flat as silently as she’d entered it, closing the door softly behind her.

John stared after her for a moment, then turned his gaze on Sherlock. “What the hell was that all about – besides the obvious, I mean,” he added hastily, clearly in no mood to be told what an idiot he was for not understanding the scene that had just played out before him.

Instead of answering, Sherlock unfolded the note he’d been given and studied it before silently handing it to John to read.

John didn't need Sherlock's silencing finger against his lip to keep shut. Not when the first line of the note read: _Audio surveillance on the flat, no video. M. sends his regards._

As always, Irene Adler never ceased to surprise him.

**oOo**

Not being an idiot (no matter what Sherlock might think), John waited until the two of them were safely ensconced in a cab on the way to Mycroft's office before speaking of anything that had just occurred in the Baker Street flat.

“So. She either figured out you weren't with her completely of your own free will or else Moran told her what was going on. Is that it?”

Sherlock nodded, lips pursed as he mentally went over the most current events in the tangle Moran had landed him in. “That would have been my assumption as well had she not handed me this note,” he said, tapping the folded piece of paper with a distracted finger as he gazed out the taxi's window. “Clearly she's been working for Mycroft this entire time, which puts an entirely different spin on the situation, wouldn't you agree?”

“Yeah,” John agreed, sounding faint even to his own ears. Then his mind caught up with what Sherlock had just said, and he turned to him with an incredulous expression as he said: “Wait, what? Mycroft? What are you...”

Sherlock gave him an impatient look. “It's obvious, John. Irene warned me about the audio surveillance – which I already knew about, naturally – and at the same time let me know who she was really working for. My meddlesome elder brother.”

“M could refer to Moran as easily as Mycroft,” John pointed out, his head whirling at this unexpected turn of events. “It would make more sense if it did.”

Sherlock gave him another impatient look and shook his head. “No. If she was simply informing me of her connection to Moran – a connection I was already aware of, which she in turn knew I was aware of – there would have been no need of the note, even if she were acting against his orders in seeking me out, as I first surmised. No, he told her to come to me, in order to ascertain whether I knew where my son was, to discover if I'd taken him myself – which no, John, I did not,” he added, giving the other man a sharp look.

John had the grace to look abashed for even thinking such a thing – which, of course he had. If Sherlock had taken Eddie somewhere in order to keep him out of Moran's clutches, he would have let Molly know so she wouldn't worry further. The time for him to play the heartless bastard was past now that Eddie had been – temporarily, he hoped and prayed – taken out of the equation.

Of course, the poor kid could still be in danger, either from the poison Moran had fed him or at the hands of whoever had him now, but unless Sherlock had an idea of who that might be, there was literally nothing they could do about his plight at the moment. Which was the only reason he didn't interrupt his friend as he finished summing up his reasoning for the “M” being his brother and not Moran.

Besides, it made the cab ride go quicker.

“Based on that, there was no need for Irene to give me Moran's regards on that note. Rather, she was telling me who she's really been working for this entire time. No doubt her true role in all this has been to make the contacts Moran needed to reestablish Moriarty's criminal network, while at the same time relaying the information to my brother.”

“But why not just take them down once he knew who they were? Why wait?” John asked, wishing to God politics wasn't so bloody confusing.

“Mycroft was biding his time, waiting for whatever Moran had planned here in London while I was away to come to fruition. And,” he added with a slight sneer, “no doubt he wanted his valuable agent back home before he dropped the net on Moran. I have no doubt that those contacts Irene established for him have already been taken into custody, and Moran himself will soon be a 'guest' of the British government as well.”

“Bloody bastard,” John muttered. “He really is the Iceman, isn't he.”

When Sherlock gave him an uncomprehending frown, he elaborated. “Mycroft probably could have done something to keep Eddie safe; you said he realized he was the target, yeah? The reason you left Molly in such a – excuse the appropriate words here, mate – gutless, cold-blooded way. I'm still pissed off at you about that, by the way,” he added with a black frown as he met Sherlock's eyes. “You weren't here when she completely fell apart, but Mary and I were, and it was not good, Sherlock. Not good at all.”

Sherlock dropped his gaze, his eyes on his hands. He'd clenched the note into one fisted hand, crumpling it without realizing he'd done so. “Yes, John, I know,” he said softly, his words measured and controlled as always but there was an undercurrent of something – shame, guilt, sorrow, pain, one or all of those, at least to John's ears. “I have as much to answer for as Moran does.”

“Ain't that the truth.”

Both men looked to the front of the cab, startled by the driver's comment...then Sherlock snarled and lunged for the man's throat through the narrow opening in the plexiglass barrier that separated him from his passengers.

Sebastian Moran laughed, turned the gun they now saw he was holding toward John...

...and shot him.


	7. Deducing Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's fate, Molly's fate and a dingy warehouse where Sherlock and Moran verbally spar. What more could you ask for?

Sherlock immediately stopped trying to get his hands on Moran and turned his attention to his stricken comrade. The bullet had passed through John's shoulder – the one already scarred from his injuries in Afghanistan – and was bleeding copiously. John was fast on his way to losing consciousness, but Sherlock estimated he would survive as long as he wasn't left to simply bleed out.

While he attended to his stricken friend – not bothering to try and pull him from the moving cab as their captor increased his speed and expertly threaded through the London traffic as if he truly did this for a living – Moran was speaking. “In case you’re wondering, yes, I shot to wound on purpose. Seemed like the best distraction. Something to keep you busy until we reach our destination.”

Sherlock gave him no response, although he listened closely in case Moran gave something away he could use. John was biting his lip in order to keep from crying out in pain as Sherlock removed his jacket and wadded it up in order to apply a combination of pressure and blood control to the wound. After he’d done everything he could to make the other man comfortable, he spared a glance for the back of Moran’s head, calculating.

As if reading Sherlock’s mind – or, more likely, seeing his face reflected in the rearview mirror – Moran said: “Don’t try anything, Holmes. John’s not the only hostage I have right now.”

Sherlock went very, very still as his mind raced, coming to the correct – the only – conclusion. “You’ve taken Molly,” he said.

Moran nodded, glancing over his shoulder with a self-satisfied smirk before returning his attention to the traffic ahead of them. “Got it in one.”

He spent the remainder of the drive – another fifteen minutes – making dark threats against Irene Adler for her betrayal of him, one eye on the road and the other on his two hostages. Difficult for Sherlock to do what had to be done without being caught, but he managed. “Thanks for that bit of intel, by the way,” he said while Sherlock continued to attend to John. “I'd be sorry I sent you to her if it wasn't for the fact that you fucking that bitch hurt your darling Molly so much worse than just leaving her had.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and held his silence, relieved when they finally reached their destination. It was a large, brick building in a heavily industrial district near the port, a combination of warehouses and business catering to the shipping industry. He pulled up to a side door on a building that showed signs of neglect but not necessarily abandonment, then told Sherlock to drag John’s ass inside.

Sherlock did as instructed, gritting his own teeth as John moaned in half-conscious pain as he was pulled from the backseat of the cab and half-carried, half-walked to the door. Moran followed the two men, his gun trained on them the entire time. He gestured for Sherlock to open the door, tossing him the key and watching dispassionately as he struggled to unlock the padlock and keep John from collapsing to the ground. He managed it after a moment, pulling the door open and stepping into the darkened room as Moran ordered.

John’s grip on consciousness vanished as they stepped over the threshold; Sherlock felt the sudden laxness in his friend’s body and just managed to catch him in his arms and hoist him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Even though the movement was bound to exacerbate John’s injury, it was still better than allowing him to drop to the unseen – but doubtlessly filthy – floor.

The sound of the door clanging shut behind them caught his attention, followed by the click of a light suddenly being turned on. The light was dim, a series of low-wattage bulbs hanging naked overhead, but enough to reveal a pair of chairs and a low table.

One of the chairs was empty, and the other held Molly's tied and gagged form.

Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of John Watson bleeding all over Sherlock's shoulder, and she struggled a bit with her bonds, her gaze rising beseechingly to meet that of the coolly amused Sebastian Moran as he followed his two new captives into the room. 

“Lay him on the table, and yes, Dr. Hooper, I'll let you attend to him. But don't try anything funny or I'll put the good Dr. Watson out of his misery for good this time.”

Molly nodded, watching as Sherlock carefully laid his friend – _their_ friend – on the table, locking eyes with Molly as he rose to his feet and backed away at Moran's order. Molly gave a fractional nod; she would do her damndest to save John, and whatever Sherlock had to do to Moran to stop him would be fine with her – after they gleaned whatever information from him regarding this son they could.

“Here.” Sherlock half-turned and caught the pocket knife Moran tossed to him. “Don't you try anything funny either, Mr. Holmes.” He smiled, a flat, cold smile, and added: “Or do, and watch your best friend and your whore die with your brat still in her belly.”

Sherlock studied him out of cool, blue-gray eyes, tilting his head to one side inquisitively as he moved behind Molly and cut away first her gag and then the plastic zip-ties holding her arms to the back of the hard wooden chair. “Why do you hate Molly so much, Moran?” he asked as he turned his attention to Molly's ankles. “I have to admit, it’s a question that’s been plaguing me from the beginning. I understand your vitriol toward me, but aside from helping me fake my death, I fail to see what Molly might possibly have done to earn your enmity. Or our children,” he added, watching Moran intently as he spoke.

A slow smile spread across Moran’s face as Molly wiggled her legs and shook her hands, desperate to restore circulation and attend to John. “What, the great and all-knowing Sherlock fucking Holmes doesn’t know why I hate his baby-momma so much? Can’t _deduce_ it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Frankly, no,” he replied, sounding rather put out about it. Molly wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the expression of annoyed bewilderment on his face. Really, he was taking the time to try and puzzle out Moran’s dislike of her when the man was holding a gun on them all? While John Watson possibly bled out in this filthy warehouse? How had she ever managed to fall in love with him in the first place?

Then his expression softened as his eyes met hers, he blinked rapidly, and she remembered exactly why she’d fallen in love with him, even as she recognized what he was doing.

Stalling for time. Which meant Lestrade or Mycroft – possibly both and half of MI5 and the London police force to boot – were coming to the rescue. God, she hoped that was true. John, however, was the focus of her concern at the moment, above and beyond her own safety. Sherlock had managed to stop the initial bleeding, she noted approvingly, and the bullet had passed entirely through his body so she wouldn't have to try and cut it out of him.

“I need the knife,” she said to Sherlock, holding out her hand while careful to maintain eye contact with Moran. “I need to cut his shirt away, assess the damage...”

Moran nodded impatiently. “Whatever. Do what you can, Dr. Hooper.” He said her name with a particularly deep level of loathing; if Molly hadn't already known the man held an inexplicable – to her, at least – level of hatred for her, she would certainly have been able to deduce it just by that.

Sherlock handed her the knife, sparing a moment to frown down at John, the corners of his lips tightening in what Molly knew from long experience interpreting his expressions as indicating a great deal of concern. She felt the same way, but if she was right and help was coming, then she would do her very best to keep John alive until that help arrived.

And Sherlock, it seemed, was just as determined to keep Moran's attention on himself. “Although I haven't deduced the reason behind your hatred toward Molly, I have, however, come to realize your true relationship to Moriarty, aside from being his second in command and assassin of choice.”

Moran sounded amused as he answered Sherlock’s obvious challenge. “Really? And what might that relationship be? Was he my boyfriend? Bastard child – although I started young, I didn’t start quite that young, so if that was your deduction you’re – ”

Sherlock didn’t allow him to continue with his mocking, choosing to interrupt with a simple: “James Moriarty was your half-brother.”

There was a moment of silence Molly chose to interpret as “stunned” before Moran spoke again, although the humor was gone from his voice as he did so. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes. How did you figure it out? There are no birth records tying us together, and our parents are all dead.”

Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes, as if it were so blindingly obvious that even an idiot could have figured it out.

“You care entirely too much about seeking what you consider justice for him long after he killed himself. In spite of your attempts to be casual when I brought the subject up at the beginning of this overblown – and risky on your part – adventure in blackmail and emotional destruction, once I had time to review our conversation I recognized the clues I missed the first time around, when I was too caught up in my own emotions,” he admitted with a lack of self-consciousness that Molly was stunned to hear. “There was a bond, but you weren't lovers; in spite of Moriarty playing gay when he and I first met face to face, neither of you have any past sexual attachments to other men, only women. I interviewed several – not terribly difficult to identify the few you two left alive – and found those conversations quite...enlightening.” He paused, perhaps to gauge his subject's interest. “Shall I continue?”

Moran nodded and waved the gun in agreement. “Please, do. This is rather fascinating.”

Molly gritted her teeth and tried not to shout at the two men to stop posturing and get it over with. Her instincts were screaming at her to do something, anything, but she knew that John had to remain her priority. The wound was bad, but not as bad as it could have been. John would survive as long as she kept the blood flow under control.

“You weren't lovers,” Sherlock was saying while she carefully cut away the fabric from the wound and stripped off her jumper in order to remove her camisole, the better to use it as an additional bandage. “Hardened criminals such as yourself – and psychopaths like Moran – rarely form deep and lasting bonds of friendship such as I have developed with John.” Sherlock spared a glance toward the unconscious form on the low table and his expression momentarily darkened. “Even a mutual interest in mayhem – being 'kill buddies' as the American expression goes – isn't enough to explain your thirst for vengeance. Especially since Moriarty killed himself. Had I killed him, it would make more sense,” he added, studying Moran intently, but flashing Molly a brief look as well.

That look spoke volumes to her; he wasn't so caught up in his deductions and showing off that he'd forgotten what was at stake here. Not that she'd ever doubted – well, yes, she had, if she were being completely honest with herself. Even after he’d revealed that everything he’d done in the past four months had been to keep Eddie – and herself – alive, some part of her had continued to wonder if he’d acquiesced because it was what he really wanted, deep down inside.

She’d never felt worthy of him, had buried her insecurities and doubts until he’d left that devastating letter, which was part of the reason she’d fallen so completely apart. Because part of her had always expected that day to come, and blamed herself for not being interesting or intelligent enough to continue to hold Sherlock’s attention.

She still wasn’t entirely convinced that she was wrong, but now was certainly not the time to blurt out the dozens of questions that had been building inside her for so long.

“A familial relationship seemed obvious once I realized that I would – and intend to – exact the same sort of revenge for harm done to my own family. Sentiment isn’t something I often admit to, but in this case my own feelings for my son and his mother,” he tipped his head to indicate Molly although his steely gaze never left Moran’s, “led me to recognize the same emotional attachment you had for Moriarty. Who, as you already pointed out, is too old to be your son. A half-sibling seemed the most logical relationship once I determined that neither of you had changed the names you were born with and thus were unlikely to be full siblings.”

“I didn’t even know Jimmy existed until I was ten years old,” Moran admitted, his voice low and reminiscent but still edged with a wicked sharpness that gave Molly a chill to hear. “Dad had a mistress – Delia Moriarty, her name was – but you know that already, don’t you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock nodded, and Molly froze as Moran raised his gun and pointed it directly at Sherlock's head. No matter how cool he was playing it, this conversation was obviously starting to get to him.

“Delia Suzanne Moriarty, a lounge singer,” Sherlock confirmed, looking as unfazed by the gun as he had when it was merely aimed in his general direction. “Your father – Richard Moran, a middle class ‘businessman’ with ties to the American mafia – met her whilst fostering those ties with a mid-level drug dealer attempting to cement a deal with a British counterpart. Your father was involved as a neutral third party – his unofficial role as a facilitator for such deals being well known amongst that class of criminal – and once the two sides had reached an agreement, he left them to their negotiations and turned his attention to the floor show.”

“Jimmy’s mum was a real looker,” Moran reminisced. “Shame when she turned to the booze after Dad dumped her. If he’d set her up for life even after he found someone new, if he’d done right by Jimmy, then I might never have found about them. A woman scorned, and all that.” He stepped around the table and watched as Molly carefully applied her make-shift bandage and pulled her hands away from John.

Without warning, Moran yanked her to her feet, eliciting a startled cry from her lips before she clamped them shut, determined to keep silent in spite of the gun he now pressed to her head.

Sherlock tensed as he watched the byplay, and Molly rested her hands by her sides, making no moves – but allowing him to see that she'd palmed the open blade.

Moran was still talking, either not knowing about the knife or toying with them. Molly hoped it was the former rather than the latter. “But you know all about a woman scorned, don’t you, Sherlock? Molly here was well on her way to cutting you completely out of her life, not letting you see your brat or the one on the way ever again before some idiotic third party muscled in and snatched Eddie from both of us. Slapped you a couple of times, did she? She may be a mouse but she’s not one to just sit back and take it when she feels she’s been deliberately ill-used. As opposed to, say, the times when she thinks the other party – you, obviously, in this case – just doesn’t get how rotten he’s treating her, eh?”

Molly closed her eyes and swallowed hard as he caressed her cheek with the barrel of the revolver.

“I regret every single hurt I have ever caused Molly,” Sherlock said in a low, intense voice. Speaking as much to her as to Moran, Molly knew, feeling the ice that had built up in her heart start to crack. If they got out of this alive – _when_ , she corrected herself fiercely – and after they found Eddie ( _safe and sound, please God_ ) she and Sherlock were going to sit down together and have a real heart to heart talk about everything that had happened to them.

Whether their relationship could be repaired would depend on that conversation. But she knew herself well on the way to forgiving her “significant other” based on this confrontation alone.

First things first, however. Moran didn't have Eddie. Sherlock didn't have Eddie, hadn't spirited him away to safety after discovering the poison that was being used against their son. So who had him? And why had they taken him?

She was about to risk it all and ask, beg to know if either man had any clues at all when Sherlock beat her to it.

“So, _Seb_ ,” he said, putting heavy emphasis on Moran's name – nickname, she supposed – “which one of your many, many enemies has taken my son out from under your nose?”


	8. Turning the Tables

“What makes you think it isn't one of _your_ many, many enemies?” Moran countered smoothly, clearly unrattled by Sherlock going on the offensive. “I can't be the only one out there who hates you enough to kidnap your son. Or maybe it's one of your dear brother's enemies – which reminds me, I am going to have to do something about him as well as Irene. Any suggestions? I know you two aren't very close, any posthumous requests to make of me when I finish with you and go after him?”

Sherlock shook his head and managed to look both bored and irritated at the same time. “Regretfully, no. Mummy wouldn't have it. Besides, we both know you're not about to kill me, not yet.”

“Oh? And why not?” Moran shifted the gun so it was pointed at Sherlock again. Molly remained in his grasp, not moving, watching Sherlock as well. Waiting for a sign, a signal of some sort, telling her when to move. She might not be well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, but she had a few moves Moran might not be expecting. “Why shouldn't I just blow your fucking brains out, then kill these two?” He jerked his head toward John and shook Molly hard enough to make her cry out.

“Because you want Edmund,” Sherlock replied. “You brought the three of us here to make sure we hadn't pulled a double-bluff, that one of us wasn't behind his disappearance. And now you know we aren't, you still want to know who has him. If you simply searched for him yourself, you know I would be coming after you, that I'd have hidden Molly somewhere safe and that you would spend half of your time watching over your shoulder. No, this way you can force me to find my son and bring him to you, with the threat of killing John and Molly if I don't. However, we both also know that won't work, since you've already proven to what extremes I would go to protect my son. Yes, I would search for him and find him, but I would never turn him over to you. Not even to save the lives of others I love.”

There was a burning intensity in his eyes as he spoke, his words a low rumble that Molly recognized as Sherlock at his most sincere. He meant every word he spoke, and in spite of the implications for herself and John, she was immensely proud of her “significant other” at that moment. Proud and certain that, no matter what, she would find some way to forgive him everything he'd done in Eddie's name in the past four months.

He and Moran traded stares for a long, fraught moment, during which Molly's heart, which had been beating like an out-of-control locomotive, slowed and steadied. She also recognized when Sherlock was about to act, and knew she had to be prepared to assist hm as best she could under the circumstances. Not just for his sake, but for her own and John's and – most importantly – for Eddie.

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, a new voice entered the conversation, coming from somewhere in the darkness outside their immediate circle of light. “Oh, Sherlock, is this the real reason you slept with me? I'm terribly disappointed, but then, darling, I've been disappointed in you ever since you decided to start playing happy families with your pet pathologist.” 

Irene stepped into the light, wafting an insincere smile Molly's way. “No offense, dearie.”

“Cut the crap,” Moran growled, swinging his gun around and training it on Irene's head. “I know you're working for Mycroft Holmes, you fucking bitch, working to bring me down. So don't think you can come in here and bat your eyelashes at me and get me to let Sherlock go so you can play with him some more. No matter what I owe you.”

Astonishingly – at least in Molly's opinion – Irene had the temerity to roll her eyes and huff an annoyed sigh. “Yes, let's talk about what you owe me,” she said, returning her gaze with laser focus to Moran's face. “Let's talk about the fact that I found a way to keep you alive after I was given strict instructions to do the exact opposite, shall we? Let's talk about all the assistance I've given you since Jim killed himself, including finding a proper body double to take Dr. Watson's bullet in the face for you.” Her eyes bored into Moran's and Molly had the terrifying feeling that he wasn't the most dangerous person in the room. “We both know there are other things we could talk about, but as Jim would have said, _darling_ , not in front of the children.”

Just like that the balance of power had tipped from the man with the gun to the woman with the poise and posture of a supermodel and the feral eyes of a predator. The only question was, who was the overly made-up bitch really working for – Moran, Mycroft, or, as Molly suspected, only herself?

As long as she wasn't the one who'd taken Eddie, Molly really couldn't find it in herself to give a flying fuck. Nor did she care who came out on top as long as her son came out of this entire muddle safe and once again in her arms. She would even sacrifice Sherlock and John if that was what it would take, much as Sherlock had willingly sacrificed their own happiness in order to save Eddie from Moran's twisted plot.

Irene actually sauntered closer to Moran, who still held the gun on her but whose expression had gone from furious to uncertain as she approached him. Molly didn't dare turn her head to look, but she knew Sherlock had to be watching the woman – sorry, The Woman – as well. She felt an irrational surge of jealousy deep in her gut and did her best to ignore it. She'd kiss the dominatrix herself if she ended up being the one to hand Eddie back to Molly. 

“Sebastian,” Irene was purring as she gently pressed her fingers against Moran's wrist, the one holding the gun, her eyes never leaving his even as his grip on Molly tightened. “You know I always walk my own path. Working for Mycroft allowed me to earn back my identity, the life I was forced to abandon after that mess in Karachi.” Her eyes didn't so much as flicker in Sherlock's direction even though everyone in the room knew exactly who had extricated her from that mess. “But I never forget my own debts; you helped me out in so many ways that I could never turn you over to him. I was going to warn you but I figured you already knew something was up when you sent Sherlock my way. Thank you for that,” she added, finally allowing her disinterested glance to meet Molly's. Her coral-red lips turned upward in a wicked smile. “He was delicious.”

Molly went rigid, her eyes narrowing into slits at Irene’s deliberately provocative words. “Emphasis on was,” she replied, keeping her voice as sweetly poisonous as the other woman’s. “I think we both know he won't be having 'dinner' with you ever again. Especially since you knew all along he didn’t need to share any meals with you but neglected to find a way to inform him of that little fact.”

Molly had, in fact, just worked that out herself, and was rather proud of herself for the riposte. Especially since bandying insults about like this was normally outside her skill set. Living with Sherlock for eighteen months appeared to have rubbed off on her a bit. 

“Ooh, Sherlock's little pet has found her claws, has she?” Moran asked, clearly amused by the by-play between the two women. “Maybe she's not the boring little bit of nothing you thought she was, Irene.”

Irene's face had turned an interesting shade of red as Molly continued to smile at her, a smile just as bright and false as the one Irene had given her, but possibly even more self-satisfied. Although she wanted nothing more than to slap the smirk from her face, to claw out the other woman's eyes and pull her hair as if they were pre-teens fighting over the same boy, she held herself rigidly under control. She concentrated on her son's sweet face, the thought of holding him in her arms once again, and felt her fear and anger easing just the slightest bit. She would hold him again, dammit and no one – not Sebastian Moran, not Irene fucking Adler – NO ONE was going to stop that from happening.

Just as no one was going to keep her away from Sherlock once this was all over. Oh, she wasn't going to just fall into his arms and forgive him – they had a long road to travel before that could happen – but she knew she was going to get her happily-ever-after. She'd earned it.

Something of her resolve must have shone in her eyes, because Irene's narrowed in response. She opened her lips to say something – no doubt something cutting – but Moran beat her to the punch, still chuckling at the by-play between the two women. “Give it up, Irene. Our little Molly's not about to let you have the last word tonight. If she wasn't responsible for Jimmy killing himself, I might be tempted to let her go and watch while you two try to kill each other.”

His words were so entirely unexpected, so incredibly bizarre, that Molly was positive she'd misheard him. Her attention turned back to him, so shocked by the thought that anyone could believe she'd had something to do with Jim Moriarty's suicide, that she almost missed the subtle movement Sherlock made, the signal she'd been waiting for.

Instead of asking Moran what he was talking about, she allowed her body to go limp, sliding down to the floor so quickly she was able to evade his loosened grasp. As soon as she hit the floor she rolled away from him, tucking herself up in order to make as small a target as possible while Sherlock launched himself at the other man.

If she was worried that Irene would interfere, she needn't have. As soon as Molly had removed herself from Moran's grasp, the other woman had dug her claw-like nails into the back of his hand. With a howl of pain Moran shook her off, then punched her in the jaw. Sherlock took immediate advantage; he'd already been on the way to grapple for the gun, but with Moran off balance and both Molly and Irene currently on the floor – Irene unconscious, Molly could clearly tell, lip bleeding from the blow Moran had landed – he was able to knock their mutual tormentor to the floor, grasping the wrist of his gun-hand and slamming it into the concrete.

Moran cried out again, as much in anger as in pain, as the gun flew from his loosened grasp. Molly went after it, skittering across the floor on hands and knees, doing her best to avoid the rolling, flailing forms of her child's father and Moriarty's half-brother, fingers touching the gun and then hauling it safely into her grip.

She reared up onto her knees, then scrambled to her feet, clutching the weapon to her with both hands once she was fully upright. She was shaking, a combination of adrenaline and terror, but she knew how to handle a gun. John had taught her at Sherlock's insistence; she'd resisted at first, but Sherlock's argument that she would be foolish to turn down any opportunity to learn a skill that might keep their son safe had swayed her. She had been four months pregnant at the time, and had faithfully kept up her practice sessions even after he was born.

Of course, she'd never shot another person; would she actually be able to go through with it if she had to? If Sherlock couldn't restrain Moran, would Molly Hooper, pathologist and mother, actually be able to take another human being's life?

Fate – and John Watson – ensured that she wouldn't have to discover the answer to that question today. Sometime during the scuffle, John had apparently regained consciousness. In spite of the intense pain he must surely be suffering from, he'd staggered to his feet in time to grab Moran with his good arm, pulling him off balance and spinning him so he faced directly toward Molly and the gun he'd once held on her.

He stared at her, no doubt gauging her intent, but the tension in his body, the clear sign that he was about to spring at her and take his chances, disappeared as a long, elegant hand reached over Molly's shoulder and plucked the gun from her grip. “Molly, I believe John could use some help,” Sherlock said as he trained the weapon on Moran. “And our friend here knows he's been beaten; he'll be no further trouble. Will he.”

Moran made no response as Molly gave Sherlock's arm a grateful squeeze. She inched her way past the unmoving form of the man who'd caused them all so much pain, then paused and looked him square in the eyes. “If my son is harmed in any way because of what you did to him, I promise I will kill you with my bare hands.”

Without telegraphing her move in the slightest, she then punched him in the jaw as hard as she could.

She made a good job of it. If he hadn't already been battered and bruised by his scuffle with Sherlock, she knew it probably wouldn't have affected him as powerfully as it did. As it was, she watched with a great deal of satisfaction as he rocked back on his heels and slowly collapsed to the floor, as unconscious as Irene Adler.

She gave a sharp nod, then hurried over to help John, who looked about ready to collapse to the floor along with Moran.


	9. All Over?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penulitimate chapter here, folks! There will be a time jump in the epilogue cause I think Molly will need more than a few minutes to get her relationship with Sherlock back on track. Plus I'm sure to be told Sherlock is OOC at the end of this chapter, but I defend his emotionalism, otherwise he really wouldn't be human. Just sayin'. Enjoy, and thanks to all my wonderful readers (and especially reviewers) for sticking around during this emotional rollercoaster ride of a story. Not beta'd, by the way, so all errors are mine. Oh, and a head's up: The next two I post will be just as angsty, so be warned! :)
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Molly had heard the saying “it’s all over but the shouting” before, but this was the first time she’d ever found herself murmuring it aloud.

Moran was securely bound, awaiting the arrival of Mycroft’s men. Sherlock had tossed her Irene’s phone, and although Molly was loathe to touch anything belonging to that woman, John needed medical attention badly. He had passed out and was bleeding again, or he had been before Molly had Sherlock strip off Moran’s lightweight jacket so she could press it to the wound, which made three unconscious people in the echoing emptiness of the warehouse.

Leaving her, at least temporarily, alone with Sherlock. “Should we tie her up, too?” she asked, with a pointed glance at Irene Adler’s unconscious form.

He shook his head. “She had nothing to do with Edmund’s kidnapping, no matter which side of the law she’s currently working on.”

“Did you know she suspected something? That you weren't just there to...be with...her?” It was hard for her to say the words, even couched so euphemistically. And why did she care? Sherlock had done what he'd done to save Eddie, yes, but he'd broken her heart in the process, and damned near broken her will as well. That week she'd spent at St. Elspeth’s...not to be borne. Certainly not to be dredged up here and now, where there were other, far more pressing concerns. Which reminded her... “What did he mean, Sebastian Moran, when he said it was my fault that Jim – Moriarty – killed himself?”

Before Sherlock could answer either question the warehouse door burst open. In poured a veritable sea of men in helmets and black body armor, weapons scanning the area. When the leader looked over at Sherlock, he gave a sharp nod. The other man nodded back, then ordered his men to search the premises. He held a walkie-talkie to his lips and spoke quietly; almost before he'd finished speaking, a team of paramedics with a gurney raced into the room, heading directly for the five figures in the small circle of light.

Molly was very busy for a while, explaining what she knew of John's injuries, how he'd possibly reinjured himself saving them from Moran, but in no time at all she found herself gently pushed to the side – not literally, of course, but it certainly felt that way – while the paramedics focused on getting John to safety.

A second team came over to check her and Sherlock out, but since both of them were fine – relatively speaking, certainly compared to John – they quickly melted away. It was telling, Molly thought when she could actually think properly, that they spared not a single question for the two unconscious forms on the floor.

Moran was bundled up and removed almost as swiftly as John, although with not nearly as much care. Irene Adler was...when Molly glanced down at the floor, Irene was simply not there. She blinked, turned to find Sherlock, starting as she realized he was standing very close to her. “She regained consciousness while the paramedics were working on John,” he said quietly. “I felt it prudent to allow her to make her own way out.”

“I supposes it's too much to hope she gets taken down by a sniper on the way?” Molly muttered before she could stop herself. When had she become so bitter?

When Sherlock left her that note, of course, she silently scolded herself. When her entire world shattered into so many pieces she never thought she'd be able to pull it back together again. But she had; it had taken a week in the care of others, but she'd pulled her world back together, more for Eddie's sake than her own, but she'd done it.

Eddie. Just thinking about her son threatened her hard-earned equilibrium. She turned back to Sherlock, fighting back tears. “Sherlock, Eddie, we never did find out who has him!”

“He's fine.”

Molly spun around to face Irene – not gone after all. But what was she saying? She took a menacing step closer to the other woman. “What do you know?” she demanded, fists balled at her sides.

“That he wasn't taken by an enemy,” Irene replied, her face expressionless. “I've been told by a reliable source that he is safe – and that Moran's poison has been removed from his system,” she added, voice warming a bit with what sounded like sympathy.

Sympathy. From the woman who'd slept with Sherlock even though she knew he hadn't actually done so of his own free will. Who'd slept with a man desperate to save his son even at the expense of his son's mother.

Suddenly, Molly had had enough. As with Moran, the move was not telegraphed, although clearly Sherlock expected something of the sort, since she felt his hand on her arm. 

She ignored it and let fly with a slap that rocked Irene back on her heels and left a sharp red hand-print across her cheek.

“I suppose I deserved that,” Irene said, not even rubbing her cheek although tears had formed at the corners of her eyes.

“You deserve a lot worse than that, you bitch,” Molly hissed while Sherlock held her arms to keep her from launching herself at the other woman. She ignored him, keeping her attention fully focused on the woman who had taken advantage of the situation Sherlock had been trapped in. “You knew he was being blackmailed, you knew the whole time and you still slept with him.”

“And he slept with me,” Irene pointed out, her voice steady. She had the sense not to allow even the semblance of a smirk touch her lips. “Willingly. He didn't even try to contact Mycroft until after we'd been together for a month.”

“And he and I will be discussing his actions at length,” Molly replied, giving Sherlock a pointed look. He immediately released his grasp on her arms and stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides and keeping his expression cool and aloof – but she could see the emotions he was holding back, so clearly reflected in his eyes. A mixture of guilt and shame and even, she thought, a touch of pride – in her?

It didn't matter. She turned back to Irene, took a step closer and jabbed her finger into the middle of the other woman's chest. “If you ever come near my family again – on Mycroft's behalf or not – I will personally rip every hair from your head and make sure your mouth is too sore to kiss for a long fucking time.”

The two women locked gazes; Irene was the first to look away, nodding as she backed away from the furious woman in front of her.

The sound of a throat being cleared from somewhere behind Molly and Sherlock caught their attention; she turned to see who it was, her expression lightening into one of pure joy as she caught sight of Mycroft holding her son. “Eddie!” she cried, pushing past Sherlock, holding out eager arms to take her son back into her embrace, all thoughts of Irene Adler banished from her mind.

“Mama!” he said, so clearly it brought tears to her eyes. She had despaired of ever hearing his sweet voice again. She lifted him up, hugging him and pressing kisses to his face until he squinted and pulled away, squirming and fussing until she eased her hold on him. 

She spun to face Sherlock, uncaring of the joyful tears that were streaming down her face as she showed Eddie to his father, all sins at least temporarily forgiven in the overwhelming emotions – all positive, for the first time in far too long – of the moment.

Eddie's smile, which was already stretching his chubby little cheeks and crinkling his blue, blue eyes, widened further. “Dada!” he crowed as he held his arms out to his father.

His father, whom he hadn't so much as set eyes on since he was eight months old. In the nearly five months that had passed since Sherlock left for Cairo, Molly hadn't even shown him pictures of his father; had Mycroft...but no. He was shaking his head in answer to her questioning glance. So Eddie recognized his father all on his own. She felt her heart swelling with a combination of love and amazement at how like his father her boy was even at just over a year old.

In that moment, she was able to overcome a great deal of her hurt and pain, enough to allow Sherlock to share in the joy of the moment. Selflessly she held Eddie out so his father could take him in his arms.

****

oOo

Molly Hooper was the most amazing, wonderful woman in the entire world – no, strike that; in the entire universe – and he, Sherlock Holmes, did not deserve her.

Not in the least. Here she was, a woman he had systematically torn down at the behest of a criminal seeking vengeance for a non-existent crime ( _Really? Molly Hooper was the reason James Moriarty killed himself? For God’s sake, what had put the idea into that man’s…oh. Of course. He would have to be sure to explain it to her. Later._ ) – a woman whom he had literally forced into a nervous breakdown, and she was handing him his son to hold?

He didn’t deserve either of them. Not for one bloody second.

Still, that knowledge – that bone-deep _certainty_ – didn’t stop him from holding out his arms and taking Edmund into his embrace. Didn’t stop him from kissing his son’s chubby (but much less chubby than they had been since the last time he’d seen him, almost five months gone; he was growing up rather than out at the moment, as he should be now that he was more mobile) cheeks, first one, then the other. Edmund giggled with delight and threw his arms around his father’s neck. “Dada!” he crowed again. “You back!”

Sherlock thought his heart would stop, right there, but if it did, knew he would die a happy man. Edmund was talking, properly talking (again, as it should be; he was almost a month past his first birthday…God, he’d _missed his son’s first birthday_ ) and he remembered his father. A man Molly would have been more than justified in erasing completely from his son’s life. 

He hugged Edmund tightly, feeling the small boy’s arms and legs wrapping around his neck and torso in one of those full-body hugs only small children can manage, feeling such a surge of emotion he once thought himself incapable of feeling for another living being. 

And yet two people had entwined themselves around his heart and mind so completely that he couldn’t imagine a life without them. Molly and Edmund – and the new baby, a little brother or sister for Edmund. Another son or a daughter for Sherlock and Molly. He just hoped that her generosity would spill over past this moment in time, that she would allow him back into her life at least for their childrens’ sakes.

“Molly,” he said, his voice choked with emotion, staring at her, knowing that the tears running down her cheeks weren’t far behind on his own face if he didn’t bring himself under control. “Thank you.”

In a fairy tale or a movie, she would have melted into his arms, embracing him as well as their son. The three of them would then walk off into the sunset – or at least back to Baker Street, where they would take up residence and live happily ever after.

All Molly did was nod and smile, but her eyes were on Edmund and Sherlock knew he still had a long road to travel before he made his way back into her good graces.

A road he was more than willing to traverse, as long as she and Edmund were at the end of it, waiting for him.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

John had been taken to hospital. Sebastian Moran had been hauled off in cuffs, ankles to wrists, but not before Sherlock plucked something from his inside jacket pocket – a well-creased envelope that Moran cursed and fought to retain. His shouted threats and barrage of swears seemed to linger in the air long after he'd been manhandled from the warehouse.

Irene was gone as well. Mycroft had escorted Molly – after being thoroughly checked out by the medics and declared into good shape – and Sherlock and Edmund to one of the ubiquitous sleek black cars that always marked his presence on the streets of London.

He'd watched as they slid into the back seat, Sherlock having surrendered their son to Molly's anxious arms. She could barely be convinced to place him in the carrier seat, but a reminder that it was the safest place for him inside the vehicle – by Mycroft's dark-haired assistant, of all people – had caused her to see reason.

It was during that ride, while Eddie babbled and played with his father's mobile and shirt buttons that Sherlock opened up the letter he'd taken from Moran. Molly watched as he read it, wondering what it was; more threats, more commands for Sherlock to follow?

When he handed it to her, her hands shook but she took it and read it, every word.

When she was finished, she was even more confused than before. “Jim told Moran...that he was killing himself...because of me? Because he loved me and couldn't bear to live without me?” She looked over at Sherlock across Eddie's carrier seat, watched as he nodded, then gave a disbelieving laugh and tossed the letter back to him. “That's...insane,” she said unsteadily. “It's completely fu-- uh, insane,” she repeated, remembering that her son was coming to an age where he would gleefully start repeating the most embarrassing words anyone spoke in front of him. “Why would he say such a thing?”

Sherlock shrugged, carefully refolding the letter and handing it over to his brother. “Because it was true, I suppose,” he replied.

Molly had spent most of the day feeling stunned and helpless; this shouldn't have been able to affect her at all, a cup of water in a drowning man's face, but she felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment as she muttered: “He had to be lying.”

“Actually, I agree with Molly,” Mycroft said, inserting himself into the conversation without asking. Not that Molly cared; he could have forced her to listen to him recite every line from “Madama Buttefly” and she would have listened attentively, so grateful was she to him for saving Eddie's life. Even if he'd chosen a rather unorthodox way to do so – all for the sake of keeping Moran from blaming Sherlock, of course. To keep him from going after her. “No offense to your charms, of course, but James Moriarty has never struck me as the sentimental type.”

Before it could devolve into a deductive argument between the two men, Eddie shouted: “Dada! Looka! Car!” and pointed out the window while his father dutifully admired the expensive red sports car that was driving next to them.

Either way, Molly dismissed it from her mind. It was insane, thinking that Moriarty might have had actual feelings for her, but at least it gave a reason for Moran's overwhelming hatred for her. Not a very good reason, but a reason nonetheless.

oOo

All over but the shouting, wasn't that what Molly had told herself earlier?

Well. As they arrived at the government offices where they were to be officially debriefed before being allowed to visit John or return to their respective flats, all she could think was, this is where the shouting begins.

The questions put to her were brief, perfunctory at best She'd never been completely at ease in Mycroft's presence, had never seen him show much affection for her son, but watching how his eyes softened whenever his gaze happened to fall on Eddie's dark curls, Molly wondered if she'd been fooling herself, if she'd allowed Mycroft's aloof facade and tight-lipped attitude trick her into believing that he was as heartless as he seemed to want everyone – herself and his younger brother included – to think he was.

She broke into what turned out to be his last question for her, reaching across the small table to press her hand to his and catch his attention. “Thank you,” she said, with all the warmth and sincerity she was feeling. Eddie had fallen asleep on the comfortable armchair next to hers, and she saw Mycroft's eyes flicker that way for a moment before he gave her a brief nod and excused himself.

She waited less than a minute before the door to the small conference room opened; expecting Mycroft to be returning, she glanced over her shoulder, then froze as she saw Sherlock, standing tentatively in the doorway.

She relaxed the slightest bit when his eyes swept over her form and zeroed in on their sleeping son, and gestured for him to enter when he returned his attention to her, a questioning, hesitant expression on his face.

Time for the shouting, then. Only it would have to be done very, very quietly in order to keep from waking Eddie.

“Apparently Uncle Mycroft is Eddie's new favorite person outside of Mama and Dada,” she said, breaking the conversational ice, as it were. She rose to her feet, knowing it was foolish to feel at a disadvantage just because Sherlock was standing, ridiculous, even considering how much taller than her he was, but still. 

“Uncle Mycroft is now my favorite person as well,” Sherlock returned wryly, keeping his voice low, glancing now and again at Eddie as if reassuring himself that their son was really there. Molly completely understood, since she found herself doing the same thing, and having to restrain herself from pulling him into her arms and never ever letting him go again, ever. “Once I was able to slip him the clue that Eddie was the target – and believe me, Molly, in spite of what Irene said, it was not from lack of trying on my part – he found a way to take a blood or urine sample and got his people onto finding an antidote as quickly as they could.”

“And when they did,” Molly concluded the story they both already knew, “he had one of his men steal Eddie from the flat while I was napping.” She shivered and hugged herself. “God, I felt so...so helpless, so frightened, when I woke up and he was gone.” She gave a shake of her head. “And even after all the horrible things you'd said and done to me, the first thing I thought of was to find you, because you would be able to find him and bring him back to me. Even if all we were was a case, you would be the one to find him. Not the police or Mycroft, you.”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable; good. He deserved to, after everything he'd put her through.

Molly took a step toward him then stopped. “Is that how you got through this?” she asked, her voice a hushed whisper even though Eddie had slept peacefully through their low-voiced conversation so far. “By treating it like a case, by just turning off your feelings for us, pretending you meant it? Is that how you were able to leave and not look back?”

He shook his head. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, fumbling for something in his jacket pocket. Wordlessly he held out his mobile. There was a single voice mail; with a questioning glance, Molly pressed the code to open it, and listened.

Her breath caught in her throat when she heard the sound of her own voice, tinny and flat but still recognizable, coming from the speaker. “Hi, Sherlock, it’s Molly, of course you know that already, don’t you, sorry, but please, I need to talk to you. It’s important. Oh, Eddie’s fine! It’s nothing…bad. It’s just…call me. I need to talk to you as soon as you get home. Love you.”

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to that message since you left it,” Sherlock said softly as he closed his hand over hers, ostensibly to retrieve the mobile, but he left his hand on hers – they were both trembling, shaking. Both hands. Not just hers. “It kept me sane and tortured me at the same time, knowing that you meant the words when you said them, but that you might not…that I might never hear you say them to me again.”

She looked up at him searchingly. His eyes were clear, warm, sincere. As sincere as she’d ever seen him.

He’d never said the words she longed to hear. She’d told herself over and over again that she didn’t need to hear them, that he proved his feelings every day he stayed with her and their son. 

When he’d left them, ordered them out of his life, she’d told herself it was better that he’d never lied, never said the words, that it had all been some kind of feeble attempt on his part at living a normal life. An experiment that he’d deemed a failure in the end.

Now…she still didn’t know how she felt. He’d hurt her so badly, sent her sanity tumbling down a well to hide from the harsh reality of daylight. She’d spent a week in recovery, trying to patch her mind and heart back together again as best she could, and only the twin knowledge that Eddie needed her and that the new baby was going to need her just as much had provided the stitching she’d needed in order to properly mend herself.

But it had been a fragile sort of recovery; she’d known that as well, had seen it nearly crack back into fractured pieces of broken crockery when Sherlock had returned two weeks ago and said those terrible, awful, _cruel_ things to her in the morgue. “It really was two sets of accidents,” she finally settled on saying, knowing that he’d follow her train of thought as clearly as if she’d spoken the words “my pregnancies” out loud.

He nodded, his expression grave but slightly anxious. As if he were afraid that she wouldn’t believe him. “I know,” he said, confirming the movement of his head, making it absolutely clear that he understood her. “I know, both times…I know, Molly. I didn’t…didn’t mean any of the things I’ve said to you, in that note or the last time we…none of them, Molly,” he added in a rush, expression and voice turned to desperation as he stumbled his way through the words as if they’d landed in some alternate reality where he was the one who couldn’t put together an entire sentence in her presence.

She reached up with one hand to run her fingers gently along his jawline, up to his forehead and amongst his dark curls. His eyes closed and he reached out with a hand that actually trembled to touch her wrist, to hold her there for as long as she’d let him.

“I love you so much, Sherlock,” she whispered. “I’ve never known if you…well, I did, or I thought I did. Then I thought I’d just been fooling myself.”

“And now?” he asked, his voice only a breath louder than hers, eyes still closed.

“I know you love Eddie,” she replied, fingers still moving gently against his head, tangling in his curls, brushing against his skin. “I know you’ve always loved him, would do anything for him – and if I needed proof, well, I’ve been given that, had it made crystal clear.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough to press a gentle kiss to the palm of her hand. “But I haven’t given you proof of my feelings for you,” he said, finishing the thought she deliberately left unspoken. “Because if I…loved you…how could I justify any of the things I’ve said and done since this began? Even to save our son, how could someone who loves you allow you to go through the pain and suffering I put you through, to the point of a nervous breakdown, to the point of not being able to care for our son or yourself or the new baby?”

Molly’s eyes fell closed at those quiet, painfully honest words. How could he? That was the crux of the matter. Yes, she knew he’d done it all because Moran was poisoning their son. Yes, she knew he’d been under strict orders to allow her no hope; that part of Moran’s vengeful plot had been to destroy her, without mercy, using Sherlock as his weapon of choice.

“I can’t answer those questions, Molly,” Sherlock finally said. “Not in any way that could possibly make this better for you. I’ve never done well with sentiment, but you’ve always known that.” She nodded, eyes still shut as she let him speak, let him have his say. “I love Edmund, you’re right about that. And I’ve always cared for you, always trusted you…but romantic love never seemed…quite real to me. If the threat had been to you rather than to our son, I can’t say that I would have gone to the same lengths to save you, that I would have been able to…hurt him…to save you…”

Her eyes flew open to meet his, shocked. “I would never expect you to do such a thing!” she cried, fingers tightening in his grip. “Never, Sherlock! If it had been me, I know I’d have done the same thing! I love you, but Eddie is our child, our baby,” she choked out the last word, her free hand clutching convulsively at her stomach and the new life it shielded. “Any threat to Eddie, to the new baby…God, Sherlock, I’d have killed you myself if it meant saving their lives!”

Wonder blossomed on his face. “You do understand,” he whispered as he held her gaze, cloudy blue-gray eyes staring into brown. He pulled her to him and she allowed it, lowering her eyes as she rested her head on his chest. She felt him lean down and press a kiss to the crown of her head, and smiled.

She didn’t need to hear the words after all. All the doubt, all the pain and confusion fell to the side. Not gone, but not in the forefront of her emotions at the moment. He loved her. And she understood, finally, the depths that she herself would go to should it prove necessary.

They’d leave each other behind in a heartbeat if it meant saving their children. And they’d ache from the pain of doing so, but would never look back if that was what it took.

“I won’t ask you to forgive me. I won’t even ask you to take me back,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. “I don’t deserve either. But I would very much like to remain in Eddie’s life, and be there for the new baby as well…”

“Oh, you’ll be there,” Molly murmured contentedly against his chest as she squeezed him tightly to her. “You’re going to move us out of that overpriced flat your brother found, you’re going to reinstall us at 221b, and you’re going to turn the laboratory into a nursery. Oh, and Sherlock?”

She craned her head up so she could look him squarely in the eyes, determined that he understood how _very much_ she meant this next part. He was smiling, as if her words had lightened his spirit, but the smile vanished as he waited for her to finish. “If that woman ever, _ever_ so much as texts you, you are to delete it unanswered. I don’t care how much you think we owe her for her part I rescuing Eddie, I do not _ever_ want to hear her name, see her face or find out that you’ve had _any_ kind of contact with her. Am I clear?”

She’d surprised herself with the steel in her voice, but apparently not Sherlock, because he simply nodded solemnly down at her before bending his neck to press a kiss on her lips. “I promise,” he replied when the kiss ended, his voice husky and eyes suspiciously moist.

Tears were already dripping down her own cheeks, but she knew he’d never get over it if she admitted to knowing that he was on the verge of crying, and so she ignored the brightness of his eyes and concentrated on the feel of his arms around her. God, she’d missed him so much, even when she thought she hated him. Her eyes fell on their son's sleeping form, and a fond smile curved her lips. 

“Take us home,” she murmured as she tucked her head under Sherlock's chin, and smiled when she felt him nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a lot of heat for this story on ff.net, and not everyone is going to be satisfied with my ending, but I hope you enjoyed the story. Thanks for reading and sticking with it, painful as it has been.


End file.
